There’s an angry pink horse on the carousel.
All the others seem content to go around and around. But not this one.
Its skin is an unnatural shade of bubblegum pink, its eyes bulging with peeling black paint, and its head is cocked at a tense angle- as if it is trying to throw off its reins and rider.
I watch this horse as it discontentedly goes around and around.
My brow is furrowed, as it catches my eye with each rotation.
Sometimes it is saddled with a rider, other times it is independent- yet not free. Ever going around and around, on a set course, for the enjoyment of others.
I wonder how long she has been making this tiring journey with no destination. No goal. With each rotation she goes nowhere, but gets more worn out.
I also muse about her maker- almost undoubtedly a man. I suppose she was created simply for the enjoyment of others; why else would she exist?
She does another rotation.
This time a young girl is on the pony’s back, with the girl’s father standing beside them, arms held a few inches away from the young girl’s body.
I think the mother is standing a few feet away from me. She gives a little wave and flash of her camera when they pass.
When the ride is over, the father and daughter disembark. And the horse remains motionless, dutifully waiting for the next rider.
There is obvious tension in the horse’s features, but it forever stands like a statue; a juxtaposition of strained and petrified. It is supposed to be a majestic creature known for its grace and speed, yet it remains frozen and statuesque.
I close my eyes slowly.
I come here often. I take the same route. Several loops around the park to clear my head, to break out of my emotional paralysis.
But I end up just going around and around, getting older and more tired with each rotation, the saturation draining from my eyes as well. Age and fatigue are taking their toll, yet I have gone nowhere.
Messy Bun Book Lover