Uhh, Yeah.

So, this is something that I stumbled upon, that I wrote around the middle of last year. Truthfully I can not recall. All I know is that it was written quite a while a go, while obsessed with classical literature.

The Jester's Last Bow

His smile downcast, the jester was quite the strange creature he dressed himself up to be.

His shoulders sit lodged in an uncomfortable hunch as if a great weight has been strung upon them for what seems to be years.

As he sips the cool drink – which was once, much like he, warm – he hardly acknowledges the curious faces probing at his disheveled form, sitting crippled on the ancient, worn out rug by the fire. His eyes, never having shed a tear nor a true emotion; were now asunder with the most unusual tenants – pain and regret. Those deceiving eyes... once so alight with intriguing amusement, were now impossibly tainted.

He stares at his cup a while. His lips form the silent words of a lullaby he once knew, reciting them with each swirl of the dull concoction. His actions seem to be of no avail to his sunken features. His inaudible chantings serve a different purpose; they seemed to be more of a foundation, a sort of common ground establishment in this world that shakes with uncertainty.

How had life found a way to corrupt the most alive of its kind?

What could have infected such a jolly soul as the one of the jester?

He lets out a suppressed sigh that tells of his exhaustion. His breath shudders as it re-enters his crushed chest.

Time seems to be no vital element to him.

He boasts the countenance of a man with a greater worry than that of inconsequential time.

He sits still, more statuesque than human. His eyes cloud over, obscuring the view of his raw emotions to leave them in an almost dead state. Rock hard in a glacial abyss; leaving no room for his soul to creep through.

There is one lesson he did seem to have learnt this evening - his heart could not be trusted.

He felt utterly confused and helpless at the swarm of new emotions. All he ever knew of was fake and superficial to what he was. He just could not deal with this. This was simply too much. Too much, too soon.

So, in livid response, he locked them away; in his mind miming the key to those inconceivable feelings away, away into the dark unknown. He would not feel anymore. Nobody would ever know.

His resolve was clear in the rod straight amendment to his posture and the blank stare he returned to those now brave enough to question his well-being. He was determined. He must escape.

With that he stood up. His hands, dusting off his bright vest, then reached for the crown of his head. He touched upon something coarse, and with a skilled flick of the wrist, he tipped his hat; recovering dignity and grace as he bowed to the casual onlookers. Jingles from the hat sounded with resounding familiarity; as if the end of a great act.

He was a jester, after all.

--Ani.