I love the circus. The more makeshift, the better. Clowns, trapeze artists, and jugglers have fascinated me since childhood, when my father used to take me to the Sunday morning shows. Returning to the circus is like returning to my childhood. The boy within me overrides the adult in the face of the magical unpredictability provided by the circus environment. At a young age, these performers were like demigods, who, even in the face of imminent danger, such as a trapeze artist’s fall, a juggler’s carelessness, a knife-thrower’s distraction, or a clown’s clumsy stumble, would triumph by the end of the show. It’s a projection that every child makes regarding their own life. Perhaps in this unconscious movement lies the endless enchantment of the circus, as if it were the archetype of our existential journeys. For various, though equally enchanting, reasons, amusement parks also hold a special charm. As a child, they had the power to lift me, even if only for moments, from reality and transport me to a dreamlike world of pleasant surprises and sensations, where I knew the risks were only apparent. A safe place to feel thrills. That day, alone, I was returning from Minas Gerais to Rio de Janeiro. While driving, I reflected on the enormous difficulty I had in putting into practice the lessons I had already learned. Impulsive reactions of irritation and intolerance made me squander recurrent opportunities. A behaviour that prevented me from making the necessary changes. There was a trigger that would fire at the slightest obstacle, preventing the best in me from blooming. I couldn’t identify what that trigger was.
It was lunchtime. I knew that the best restaurants were those where the trucks were parked. Being attentive, I scanned the roadside when I came across a magenta and mustard circus tent. Next to it, a modest amusement park with a few rides. Further on, a restaurant full of parked trucks. Before having lunch, unable to resist a strong impulse, I decided to visit these two symbols with intense meanings in our subconscious, as if they served as bridges to take us to unknown places within ourselves.
A sign indicated that there would be a show in the afternoon at the circus. At the same time, the amusement park would start operating. As the host and visitor of my memories, the boy reminded the adult of the emotions experienced on distant days; he brought back memories faded by a whirlwind of situations occurring in the following decades, in a tour of almost forgotten stories. It had been a long time since I last visited an amusement park. I decided to venture into the still-empty park at that hour. I smiled at the carousel and the Ferris wheel. However, the feeling wasn’t the same when I came across the ghost train, an innocent ride where you sit in a cart on tracks for a quick trip through a supposed castle of horrors, inhabited by monsters, ghosts, and mummies. Without a doubt, it was my favourite attraction until, on one occasion, the power went out just as I was halfway through the ride. In the dark, I found myself facing these threatening and ragged characters that came to life in the imagination of a scared child. It was a few, but endless minutes until the cart started moving again. Enough for me to never want to ride that attraction again. Without confessing my fear to the other children, I started coming up with different excuses to avoid accompanying them when, on new visits, our route put us in front of the ghost train. Whether it was a sudden urge to go to the bathroom or something I supposedly had forgotten and needed to go back for. Cases in which the delay was always enough for them to have moved on to another ride by the time I returned. I believe they might never have noticed my escape tricks, but I never forgot them.
I paused in front of the ghost train. I smiled at the realization of how common naive behaviours are in childhood. Lack of understanding and maturity leads us to this. Foolish fears and inappropriate reactions, seen from afar, seem amusing. “A misguided notion,” said a voice behind me. Startled, I turned around. It was an old man with dark skin, his hair and beard whitened by age. Sitting on his heels, his shirt buttoned up to the collar, his trousers rolled up to his knees; he was smoking a straw cigarette with the serenity of one who does not fear time. There was an immeasurable sweetness in his eyes. In a gentle voice, he explained: “All experiences require precise elaboration. Otherwise, they will remain incomplete. As the result of everything that has been experienced, the understanding of our lives will be used to build who we are. Disastrous, unresolved experiences leave us unfinished, like poorly constructed or dissonant parts of a person. Causes of imbalance and weakness in later stages of existence.”
I asked who he was. “I am the operator of the ghost train,” was the answer.
Before I could articulate any thoughts, he made me an offer: “How about a ride after all these years?” Then he suggested: “A necessary round to fit the lost pieces into the gears of yourself.” I thanked him but declined. I argued that it was a mere incident, common to childhood. Nothing that needed a new perspective or different meaning. The old man clarified: “The experiences of early childhood form some of the pillars of the framework that supports emotions and supports ideas in the stage sometimes mistakenly referred to as maturity. Without our awareness, this leads to different feelings and thoughts being rejected immediately, without due and careful analysis of their value and the possibilities they offer. This happens because they lack support in the imperfections of who we are, just as we cannot put windows and doors on a house without walls. Similarly, we cannot build higher floors without foundations capable of supporting growth. Without understanding, we are led to abandon our own structure to live outside of who we are. By giving up the work, the essential construction begins to crumble. The heritage of life will be lost.”
Noticing my hesitation, he encouraged me: “Where your fear is, lies your fragility and imbalance, the causes of your suffering. Only there can the causes be reversed, and healing be found.”
Not understanding my pride but wanting to appear tolerant, I said I would accept a single ride on the ghost train. I asked if it would be enough. The old man shrugged and said: “Impossible to know. However, the journey is yours; never do it because of me or anyone else. On the road of time, every day can become a gift or a curse. It doesn’t depend on the situation. It depends on your perspective.”
Feeling disconcerted, I decided to accept the invitation. I was willing to put an end to that story. Children’s fears don’t scare adults, I remarked. In response, the operator curled his lips into a slight smile. Always kind, he guided me to the cart. After being comfortably settled, a surprise. A slender boy with black hair and brown eyes sat next to me. I had a distinct sense that I knew him. Before I could say anything, the train started moving at a dizzying speed.
Shortly after the first curve, when the train entered an area of intense darkness, it came to a halt. On both sides, several images appeared. They were the simple houses of the working-class neighbourhood where I grew up. My parents left early for work. In the morning, I went to school; in the afternoon, after doing my homework, I wandered the streets with other boys in search of fun. It was not uncommon for us to find trouble. Good and evil are everywhere, regardless of financial or intellectual status. Good and evil are matters of moral and spiritual order. It is an intrinsic issue, about how aligned your ego is with your soul, how each person handles their own emotions, and the way they react to provocations, frustrations, and disappointments. In those streets of Estácio, there was both warmth and danger. The boundary was thin. I believe that, with a few exceptions, it’s not very different in most places. It was necessary to learn to survive as situations arose. Many of the criteria and values used, viewed with today’s eyes, were misguided. But the prevailing street wisdom functioned as a code of conduct; the strong subjugated the weak. Humiliation and pride were types of customary payment and glory, as if they were common currency. In a thousand possible ways, at any moment, you could be challenged. Denying the challenge meant admitting weakness and being banished from the group of the strong. If it happened, you would live in fear, like a pariah of no value. In truth, being genuinely strong would be breaking away from this harmful behavioural pattern. For this, we were all weak. No one realized this. If fear is the seed of all shadows, ignorance of oneself is the fertile ground.
The train resumed its journey along the tracks, now slowly. The images on both sides were absurdly real. They were situations I believed I no longer remembered. Periods of my life in which I had to draw on strength previously unknown to me and find mechanisms to keep my head above water amidst a succession of frightening waves in a turbulent sea. With the criteria and values established by the streets, lacking the age and maturity to oppose these influences, I denied my essence, repressed my voice and authentic will. I couldn’t do better. I was weak in trying to appear strong. This is the trap of shadows. This is the deception of pride, vanity, greed, among other shadows. It is also one of the illusions of fear and suffering. Here lies the unconfessable lie of the violent; they feel much pain and insecurity. Selfishness is a characteristic of an immature ego; abandonment of oneself is the other face of the same disorientation. Depression and anxiety, alongside aggression, are the most common consequences. In my case, reacting harshly was a way to show anyone with an attitude I perceived as challenging or antagonistic that they were facing someone ready for a fight; willing to defend their own honour at any cost. At that time, I knew nothing about honour, only confusing it with pride and vanity, seeds sprouted in the fertile soil of fear. Honour finds its best meaning in the dignity of treating others as we would like to be treated. I did the opposite by reacting harshly to any situation that resembled a threat.
A keen observation, whether of intolerance or inadequacy, will reveal a fragile and unbalanced individual; a sufferer, even though aggression provides a false appearance of strength and power. A papier-mâché demigod.
As the train continued, my age advanced; other ghosts came to visit me. Although the facts changed, the story repeated itself; my behavioural pattern, established on the foundations of the early stages of life, had become the framework supporting who I was, influencing my choices and how I dealt with the world. Without being aware of this, I couldn’t transform. Even though I had enough knowledge to execute this important transmutation, something was preventing it from happening. Every time I thought I had succeeded, life presented me with a difficulty I couldn’t overcome. Most of the time, people’s attitudes irritated or suspiciously affected me. Having lived in a hostile environment, I tended to anticipate malice even where there was none. Thus, I reacted poorly.
That’s when I realized the boy sitting next to me was crying. The operator’s voice, through the ghost train’s loudspeakers, asked me to hug the sobbing boy and added: “Tell him he was very brave, did his best, but now you can take care of him. Let him rest, allow him to be a child again, without the need to fight to survive or do what went against his essence. Thank him for bringing you this far, but let him know that from now on, it’s up to you. He no longer needs to scream when danger approaches; it’s unnecessary to show hatred as a display of strength when feeling challenged by someone.” As I wrapped my arms around his shoulders, I felt strangely and warmly embraced. I had no doubt who that boy was. I cried with him, for him, and for myself. We needed to forgive our mistakes to move forward, to make possible the transformation that awaited us. Though I had the right thoughts, my feelings prevented me. There would be no spiritual evolution while emotions remained turbulent. Even desiring the light, feeling anger distances me from it. I am the only opponent capable of hindering my own progress. No one else. Everyone else plays an important role in the indispensable exchange of growth. Without it, obsolete ways of being and living remain. Defeating others is an empty victory; overcoming myself, by illuminating each of my shadows, is the only true achievement. I knew this, but I couldn’t.
As long as the boy was not embraced and forgiven, the ego would remain restless; there would be a discordant voice against the soul’s guidance in this fundamental dialogue. The flawed and poorly constructed emotional framework prevented me from applying the best knowledge. It was essential that the soul’s values align with the ego’s desires; the more intense and gentle this interaction, the greater the clarity in being and lightness in living. As long as there is anger or discouragement, no evolution will be permitted; no one progresses through suffering, but through compassion. Only when driven by love will it be possible to advance beyond where I am. Pain’s sole function is to break the resistance that prevents love from flourishing. If I fail, the pain will only be suffering with no purpose. Love, in any of its virtuous forms, transforms dense emotions into subtle feelings that, in turn, expand perception and refine sensitivity. Everything changes.
The train stopped so I could speak with the boy. There would be no more screams of fear or reactions of defiance against the inherent adversities of existence. It was necessary to dismantle forever this trigger that, when fired, prevented the best in me from blossoming. I explained to him that from that moment on, all obstacles would be viewed through the lens of evolution. Together, we would find the master who would teach us something we still did not know. Only then would we fully benefit from the lesson offered. The exact reading of life is the book of perfect wisdom, as long as it is done with the eyes of love. The boy rested his head on my shoulder and smiled. I had forgotten the beauty of that smile. He had found peace; so had I. We cried together. We hugged. I heard him whisper that, though he didn’t know them, he had been waiting for those words for a long time. We smiled together. Then we began to remember how there were also good and joyful episodes in our story. The ghost train jolted and continued on its way.
As the ride ended, no one was seated next to me in the car. The boy was now playing within me. He was free. The time of pain had ended.
Overcome by a strange and pleasant sensation, I did not get up. In a state of rapture, I needed to find the right place for this new moment. Perception and sensitivity were in a tranquil yet stimulating simmer. The old man approached. Without preamble, he got straight to the point: “Childhood and adolescence are delicate and complicated periods that require intense exploration to dissolve traumas and untangle existential knots. Otherwise, the adult remains trapped in their own misunderstood emotions. When we talk about prejudice, we immediately think of those based on sexual orientation, ethnic background, physical appearance, professional or financial status. Yes, these are the most visible, common, and discussed. There are others, still imperceptible but no less damaging. These are the deeply personal prejudices born from painful childhood experiences. Intense and misunderstood suffering leads us to preemptively reject events and repudiate people who, with even the slightest and unintentional movement, bring back the unwanted memory. Out of fear, the unconscious moves by resemblance. As if there were a pre-installed mirror, which anticipates rejection of acceptance even before proper understanding. This explains many of our intolerance reactions, which we cannot deconstruct without pacifying the forgotten child who still suffers and thus cries out in fear. A voice that manifests in impulsive reactions. Until this rescue happens, we will live in constant conflict. Only then can we dismantle the structures tainted by unhealthiness, previously imperceptible to immature eyes, as they are hidden in the underground of existence. This is us in the captivity of pain.”
He reminded me of something important: “Deconstruct the Cowboy Syndrome that has tormented you since childhood. Educate your unconscious to live differently. Most people, when they oppose you, do not intend to duel with you. They are simply exercising their choices, with no concern about appearing superior to you. Pride has never protected you. On the contrary, it has sown imbalance and prevented true growth. To those who challenge you, respond with compassion. Do not let misunderstanding and others’ suffering contaminate you. In reality, aggressive people are asking for help; embrace them as much as possible. This is the genuine and valuable intrinsic challenge; it will be only you against yourself. Everything else is just pride and vanity. Fools believe it is about honour.”
Then he concluded: “Do not deny any of your voices. As an ancient sage taught, everything you hide will come back to dominate you.” He paused to reveal a secret: “The intellectual mind remains incomplete in the absence of love. On the other hand, the emotional reaction shows itself distant from wisdom. In the wholeness of being, the mind needs a break to hear the voice of the soul, your sacred essence. Emotions need to give way to the clarity allowed by feelings; otherwise, there will be no true understanding. This reveals the ego’s maturity through the willingness to see with purity, free from the fogs of suffering and the narrowness of prejudices. Thus, love will have a chance. Impulse uses the language of difficulties; therefore, we must avoid reacting in this way. The interval, for as long as necessary, until the light emerges to educate and illuminate our irritable and rebellious voices, is a habit of those who have conquered themselves.”
The old man curved his lips into a gentle smile and concluded: “Now it’s up to you. Another tool has been handed to you. Make good use of it and continue the work.” He then mentioned he needed to attend to other matters. The park would soon open. He extinguished the straw cigarette, excused himself, and disappeared through the gaps of the ghost train. In silence, I thanked him for the journey he had provided.
A few weeks later, professional commitments brought me back to Minas Gerais. As I drove down the same highway, I was delighted to see that the amusement park, like the circus, was still in the same place. I felt a strong desire to speak with the old man. I parked the car. When I asked about the operator, people looked at me with surprise. They said there was some confusion. That park had never had a ghost train.
Translated by Cazmilian Zórdic.
