I look at the mirror after a night of disappointment. At my feet, the Jester is crying, his tears staining his face, his leaking wound staining the floor. He whimpers beside my feet. Beneath me, he shrivels up and becomes like a seed to a tree. I’m killing the Jester for laughing at me instead of warning me and setting me free. He looks at me like a phony Christ, as if he’s been carrying a load, and I just hammered nails into him.
We seem to forget, quite often, that the people we meet have a life of their own. A family which they will return to at the end of the day and memories that will be kept secret no matter how deep down inside their mind we’ll go.
The only thing you can know about anyone is a lie, but even lies are not quickly uncovered. Think of the last person you talked to. Think of the way the statement became questionable, and the question became informative. How different are people you claim to know from the strangers you superiorly walk past.
The most hopeful you can get is failing to recognize the lie called a relationship.
I can see myself, all hopeful, a fuzzy warm feeling in my chest, walking down a street, hoping to meet the person I’ve been longing to meet. I have my hands in my pocket, I have my head inside a hoodie, feeling like a hoodlum as I listen to music through my earphones and not giving a damn because I am sure that my surprise is going to work and at that moment no one will be superior.
Street lights reflect on the wet street. The jester of all discretion is hiding somewhere and watching me from his all-revealing vantage point. My loud steps echo loud love that falls on deaf ears. I’m the spotlight of my world now and I’m blinded to the crystal lie to which I’m walking to.
I’m a boy. I’m a girl. I’m every person who has been in this situation: blind and too deaf to hear the jester laughing at the fool. The light that surrounds me obfuscates the fact that I’m tied to a railroad track, waiting, washed by the scent of the person that has remained like radioactive residue in my nostrils.
A petty memory makes smile. It’s the smile of a beggar.
Honest friends are few, if they exist.
Follow me with the Hollywood camera. Visualize this: I’m in the centre of the shot, walking, the camera is following my movement. But slowly, it becomes a panning shot, it is still following my movement, but slowly, I’m becoming sidelined to the right-hand side of the image. On the left hand side you are slowly seeing the person I want to see, surrounded by foreign company, alien, strange, familial. I stop walking and you see what I see, what the person I thought I know cannot see. And we both hear the jester’s laugh.
I’m tied to a railroad track, and the light is that of a freight train, and the lie is uncovered. Everything has been discovered, it was only a matter of time.
I see the person who I thought existed seizing to exist. All the promises that that person has made are nullified by this discovery. There is no heaven if I follow that person. There is no hell if I do not. There is only the Jester’s laughter or sobs.