Juggling balls of time, I help to create reality. Tiny glass balls of colour bounce and dance between my fingers. Primal ooze, the fields of imagination, the majician’s playtoys, spark and glow within. Red. Green. Blue. Black.
Red balls of fire, creativity pure and simple, dart like smoke between my fingers. Unlike the blue translucent ball whose ebb and flow wave up and out of my fingertips. These balls keep my toes atop the oscillating stardust. Growing bigger and smaller with the passing season’s change, the green ones of chaos– with their ever changing sizes– keep my muscles from getting lax. The last of the balls that I juggle, is the whom without light, darkness would not be known. Absent of all colour, and hard as onyx, the black ball of fate strengthens my grasp on life.
Without me the darkness captured within the ball would escape and corrupt and release fates that werenít meant to happen across the universe. Each ball is precious, very special, and very, very, very fragile; even the black ball whose hardness and fragility lies still a mystery unsolved by the universe.
Another orb glows within my view. Unlike the glass balls, this one is not within my control. It’s surface is covered in brown and blue flecks while white wisps speckled with black dance in its heavens. Smooth and hard, another puzzle waiting to be unlocked. Green flecks of colour dash between whiteness and I can envision them. This is their home. Touched only by what dreams and fates my balls bring them. Back and forth, up and down, the circular dance of colour, the euphony of sight and sound, clink, clank, and chime passing the moments of creation between my hand’s bones. I have watched the slowly spinning orb below, snap out of the bang of chaos into the colourful glow it wields now.
I am not a creator, nor do I profess to be one. I’m just in charge of juggling. From sunrise to moonrise and back again I juggle my balls high above their wisps, away from prying eyes. My feet dance across the points of the stars precariously, and they twinkle like glitterdust. One false movement of fingers or a tripdance of the toes and the circular media of colour passes from my grasp to touch one of them below. And sometimes it happens.
Sometimes, the balls drop. For no one, not even I am perfect. They drop and spread change– flowing faeriedust and molecules tumble down, fate cast upon sleeping minds below, unaware of the twists they are about to slide down. Embers touch and embed themselves into dreams. And then the new moon awakens them and the process of colour, my glass balls of colour, begins a new cycle. Yet, through all this, the orb still turns, unaware of the assault its children have just witnessed within their cherry-blossom dreams.
“What type of creator is that?” I ponder as the orb silently spins away. Giggling, I suppose the answers are hidden inside.