Those Plasticine People

A place, there exists, a place of almost sense, a place of endlessness; time remains, a frozen lake, climate refrigerated. Under skies of blue, and golden sun, a still chaos prevails.

 

Silence.

 

Open arms greet at the gates, welcoming all in warmly; a flood of sound follows through. Enter those plasticine people. Brought to the gates by faceless voices, unseen in high regard, they file in sound and emotion, yearning for tender embrace now gone. A moment's adjustment and forgotten already, ready to face the day; in circular rituals, names recited, the timer begins again. The almost humans, the mouldable beings, attention spans of mere seconds, placated by colours or nonsensical spells, songs and rhymes hold still. They appear to be human or perhaps by design, they manipulate those around; unable to act of their own accord, elder obeys the youth. 

 

Noise.

 

They can only be held for a moment or two, any longer risks their cry; a shrill attack as singular, in unison devastating. Unsure of themselves as much as others are of them, they bumble and toddle about; skeletons forming, flexible and fluid, never a worry about them. They seek thrills in ways minor to the giants around who tend. Climbing, falling and climbing again, their fun has no end; indeed it doesn't as an eye on the shadows sees the sun refuse to budge, time halted by forces unknown, confusion and anxiety created. Wondering when the observation ends, if it ever will. 

They approach, on legs unsure, they approach. Words tumble from their mouths, malformed and near illegible; almost understandable from the almost people. Conversations of events over-dramatised and half remembered memories root those who hear either out of interest or politeness; unable to move focus from storyteller lest incur their wrath. They speak the language of their elders or at least they try; some more masterful than others. They tell their tales, listen in turn, till distractions tear them away. Time still refuses to move.

 

Silence.

 

For thirty minutes, they must feed, consume to maintain energy. In that time, the handlers they rest; a moment's respite afforded. Mind still ensnared by those yet to return, reminded of the ones yet to come. Afternoon brings a change in challenge, new ones join the fray. They take our names, our words, our faces; almost but not quite there.

 

Noise.

 

The day begins once more at its halfway point, time is cyclical here. Held in rounds of songs accidental until doors to outside swing. Under the sun, behaviours new emerge when water is introduced. Ears merely for decoration as drive for sensation overwrites other's will. Try as they might, in water they change, they lose that which made them human... almost. Emotions so raw, so undefinedly defined, explosive and everywhere; capturing the most human of conditions. Such physicality, ill fitting for physique, larger than the life from which it spawns. Around them an aura, a zone of sense, danger lies within. 

 

Time, still crawling, nears end of its race, the day is almost done; corralled back to circle, the plasticine people, in ritual wait and see. Will voices faceless return to the door, reclaim the deposit they made or should handler new take up the duty, the being relayed once more? Chaos has turned a place of colour and sounds to a site of destruction and still, tomorrow they return, again and again, gradually hardening until; their forms fluidic, undetermined yet familiar, each day solidifying still; growing and learning, becoming human, till indistinguishable.