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The Circus Hotel- an essay

I see the strategically placed wooden torch poles alongside the path. The gaps between the posts are occupied by string flags and the dirt road fades into a satisfactory random stone pattern, varying in size. I make my way to the distinguished building. The canon I pass by is human-sized with swirly patterns all over and has a smooth surface. Two shrub trees welcome you on either side of the huge double doors.

The monumentally tall façade is covered in paint splotches; from purple to indigo and yellow to green, the explosions forming irrational patterns. Atop the black and white harlequin tiled roof are the fairy lights. I see the vibrantly colored stained glass windows, hiding behind the balconies in the air. 

The porter opens the heavy entrance doors and I fall into the floor. Beneath me is a spacious trampoline built into the foundation. When I look up, I see the staircase spiral all round the vast lobby. 

I take a look around, observing jesters clothed in puffy, sequenced gold. the textile flows from their gestures. The miniature bells hanging from their fool's hat jingle with a distinct sound announcing their presence. Overly large pointer shoes shuffle underneath their weight as they glide along the shiny surface of the lobby floor. 

In the far right I can see a mime dressed in black and white stripes, busy 'sweeping' the ground. Her beret contrasts her pale painted face and ghostly gloves. A silk dancer swings overhead with white bed sheets, attached to permanent loops in the ceiling. She wears a tight-fitting unitard as she intertwines the fabrics between her limbs, as though strangled in spaghetti. 

The guests are by far the strangest: male and female tightrope walkers prance about the wires strung from balcony heights. Their dramatic cupcake-like outfits are frill-filled , bodests sequenced-bedazzled. Lowering my gaze, just a but, my eyes meet the long stilt walkers. They wear bizarre zebra pattern suits loosely around their bodies. 

Every now and then, a human cannonball is launched from outside into the entrance so they land on the trampoline. Their capes thrash as they move through the air, their headgear being the first warning sign you receive.

Outside, a lion tamer is walking with his stool and leather whip in hand. He wears a khaki suit with an equally brown explorer's hat. Appalled, I see three dignified, dolled-up horses arrogantly gallop their way from the front desk going back outside, heading to the stalls. As they pass me by, I notice their glittery shoes and brilliant hair complemented by their blue pleated skirts whipping against their behinds. 

I carefully head to the receptionist. 

I introduce myself as the ringmaster.