In a forgotten circus, where laughter has become an echo and the spotlights are always off, she is the last clown. Her feet that once danced lightly around the ring now tread on a floor of dust and silence. Around her head, three masks float, which are actually ancient gods – inseparable companions who follow her, observe her and whisper truths that she does not always want to hear.

The golden mask that she holds close to her face is the one that the world sees: sad, tired, but firm, as if, even in pieces, the show must go on. The gods, who hover around her, show other sides of her: the blue, tearful mask, carries the memories of what once was and the weight of the days when everything fell apart; the orange mask, smiling and exaggerated, recalls the glory days, when laughter was easy and life was easy; and the red mask, sarcastic and cruel, laughs at itself and tells the hardest truths, the ones that hurt.

These gods are always there, hovering, questioning and reminding: who are you when no one is watching? Why carry on? She has no answers, only the silence and the weight of these masks that never leave her alone. The clown is like an oracle of life itself, trying to find meaning between what she was, what she shows herself to be and what is left.

She is all of us – who put on masks to move forward, even when the voices in our heads do not let us forget who we were, who we are or who we can still be.