It comes every night, mysteriously materializing in a different place each time. It wasn’t there yesterday, yet it is here now. You don’t need tickets to enter. Just a tear. A proof you’re human. Stepping inside the phantom-like tent, you’re amazed by how much it feels like entering another world.

Littered with blue pearls, the floor takes your breath away.  You look up, and gasp at the roof of the tent resembling a sky sprinkled with a million stars. Acrobats and trapezists streak through it like shooting stars, occasionally diving down into a bottomless lake far below them. It’s a lake of sorrows, veiled in regrets and tears acrobats and spectators alike have leaked over the years. Weeping violins play a hopeless tune in the background, tugging at your heartstrings and numbing your mind.

 You take a seat in one of the many dark blue velvet chairs and absent-mindedly rest your chin on your wrist. You can’t explain the feeling of melancholy wrapping around you like glittering fog, gnawing at your heart, that poor withered thing. But you crave more of it. Your eyes are mirthless, glassy bowls for the fish drowning in the sadness that you breathe.

Those who see the Weepers’ Circus do not know, until it is too late, that they will never see the light of day again. Once you have watched the Weepers’ Circus, you become a part of it. Everyone here is a part of it. Everyone you see was once like you. Everyone met the same fate. And now you too are stuck in here forever, because it’s a never-ending ballad, a dream you can never wake up from. The violins never stop playing, the sky never stops sleeping, the people never stop weeping. This place is the beginning of a new world. It’s the end of you.