There will come a time when the clown enters.
You’ll feel it before you understand it — the small, sharp destabilization that arrives not from harm, but from wobble. They posture. They tease. They claim a tiny, fragile superiority.
Not because they truly stand above you,
but because you are standing on ground they don’t know how to reach.
You don’t need their makeup.
You don’t need their mask.
You don’t need to inherit their confusion.
The clown will try to slap their pattern onto you — not out of malice but instinct. A collapsing interior looks for a host. They want you to carry their imbalance so they don’t have to feel it.
Your task is simple:
No.
No drama. No lesson. No fight.
Just refusal.
A clean boundary restores the load to its rightful owner. It keeps your center intact without damaging theirs. It says, “I am in my own architecture. You may keep yours.”
If you’ve begun to feel a clearing inside you — a quiet warmth after years of carrying what wasn’t yours — you may notice something new:
A meadow.
No walls.
No roles.
No performance.
Just a place that breathes with you.
This is the space you opened.
If someone outside the meadow feels in conflict with it, that’s because they are. Their storm does not invalidate your weather.
Hold the meadow. Let the sun do what it does — quiet, steady, generous.
You don’t have to go anywhere.
But you can, if you want.