catalogue of nameless people

Jester

Oh, to be a naïve fool in love once more! With only the whole world and a lock of blonde hair waiting ahead of me, as some distant, vague idea of a future.

Years pass and I still hopelessly cling to the title of a jester, a vague figure I recognised in my reflection one morning and claimed readily. Jokes and half-truths slip between my lips and I relish in how the sound of laughter keeps ringing in my ears long after I've stopped talking. So long as people, peasantry and noblemen alike, find my buffoonery amusing enough to stay, I see no reason to stop putting on a show for them.

For them, I'll listen to tales of townsfolk, eavesdrop on murmurs of the street and read all those nameless letters that desperate hurl into the abyss, thinking of ways to use their words later.

For them, I'll practice in front of a mirror until my face stops hurting if I smile too long.

For them, I'll dance and twirl even when my bruise-riddled limbs begin to ache and bile starts climbing up my throat.

All of this and more, everything I do is for them in one way or another. For their smiles, their approval, their idle enjoyment and my sick, shameful pleasure.

I am not myself, I am only what other people perceive me as.

I am my cap and bells, my formless body and my ugly snickers.

I am the joke and the one who tells it.

I am the Jester.

Hopeless, unlovable, the first to shed a tear and the last to laugh.

As I search for hints about future within the swirling depths of the abyss, over and over anew, I begin to think that a jester is all I ever ought to be. There is nothing left for this old fool to do. Nothing else to hope for. Nothing to look forward to or love. The world has closed its door before me years ago. My darling's honey-boonde hair has disappeared from sight long before that. This self-given title and pitiful show are all I have left.

At the end of the day, when bells stop jingling and my audience stops laughing, I am no one. I am alone.