Sometimes the carousel spins, and it twirls painted ponies galloping into a never-ending sunset.
It spins neon lights and the same old catchy tune- bitter sweet. Turning on its own axis- it moves
and it doesn't stop- carrying those who never left on a eternal journey- a journey that means
flying on gilded carnival wings and neon striped pink cotton candy highs. It's the journey for the
orphan grey bundle of fur; hair slicked up- cold and anorexic bones poking at ashen scruff- a lost
and bewildered kitten, searching for home. It's the journey for the polka dotted beanie covering
scraggly hair that looks like newspaper shreds- the six freckles making a star around a dust
decorated grubby nose. A journey for the unwanted. A little girl crouching by a painted pony-
holding, afraid to let go. Afraid to go home.

Some carousels spin, and when the ride ends, you put in another quarter- because that movement
became your gravity- and spinning forever is your only choice. Sometimes spinning on the carousel-
moving into the momentum of forgetting, of a lie, of a deception is a numbing for the pain. Some
carousels spin and while you are on it your soul yearns for someone to tell- to explain why the ride
means something, what about the spinning can momentarily fade the pain. Sometimes you want someone
to tell- just to hold you up to help you find a way that makes sense- a light that doesn't burn
your eyes. But sometimes that person carries too many burdens to hear you, their sight is blinded by
their own un fallen tears, and their heart is too heavy with unspoken pain.

Then you cry, fat tears, salty tears- tears of being alone, misunderstood- of wanting someone to see
through the fa'ade. Crying tears as a release of the chemical poisoning your soul- siphoning it
off a little at a time the way writing does. You cry- because like the carousel- sometimes you
can't hold it back, and it's your only way of holding on. To anything.