The day started out quite interestingly, not your normal, usual day where your principal gets so light-hearted about starting assembly before the rain sets in. And when the rain sets in, all you can think of is: well, this feels good, probably we would have a good day?
Then during your first lesson of the day, you screw up majorly on the analysis of a poem in class, having resulting in a heated (maybe, maybe not) exchange with the teacher where possibly causing many other teachers to be involved to a larger thing, way out of proportion if blown up, and you seem to have insulted the teacher, leaving you feeling all depressed and repressed about making the teacher feel that way, wasting the class’ time for giving nonsense analysis, where another group could have gone up to present their points. Interesting though, how one can from brilliant fall from heaven to over-interpretation in an instant to ground-zero. A feeling in you leaves you frazzled for the rest of the day as you leave class needing to wear a smile like nothing has happened, to not worry people, make them question you, and you needing to give an answer without making the other party feel resentful (if ever) to the other party involved in the case earlier, or feel sorry for you, or worse, ridicule you. I guess there’s a saying that life goes on, or rather, “All that I have learnt from life can be summed up in 3 words: it goes on”. Indeed it does, so what more than to just bring the pain upon yourself not just to implicate and affect others, but than to do more and bring joy to people despite your pain.
It is then where after incidences like these where the weather mocks you by painting a setting fit for it in context. This makes you unwell, filling your belly with something of nothingness, making you hungry enough for a drink.
From classes to classes you roam, but strangely enough, in one you end up the fool, in another, you end up the high priest. Then you question, is something that is there that makes a saint? Or a foolish dream in attempt to be one? Or perhaps, it is neither but a stroke of ingenuity that brings forth the leprechauns’ dance?
‘Nay, ‘nay I say. It is neither the previous, the second, nor the latter. ‘Nay it ain’t. Presence not the equal nor more to make a saint in such places, ‘nay. Only fools could be made. ‘Nay, that too is wrong. It seems the equation to thine self; on the right be only a fool.
‘Nay to that too. To see, the fool became a jester, dressed in fancy outfits pracing about, flying kisses to his audience, his audience. The show be played, the song be sang, only to last the time before he recharges and sings and play again.
Singing and dancing, singing and dancing, the jester becomes the fool once more. It is such; the jester can’t be hurt by sticks and stones, but the fool, aye, the fool; no words can harm him, immunity to them; immortal being in the realm of dirt and filth – the land we immerse in everyday, the thing we use to converse, the thing we use to express. Aye, it be filth and dirt, yes it be, yes it be.
Sparks aflying amidst the performance, both dancing and singing. ‘Nay, it may be, yet may not be.
After a tiresome day acting, performing, this lizard of thousand shapes, sizes and colour slithers back to its dwelling, poisoned slowly by the screen in its eyes, being done too, so slowly, yet lethally by its very own venom, with every bite and gnaw. Poisoned… slowly, ever so sl…o…w… …l… … …y… … … … . . . . . . . . . .
The password to the above post is a name; one of many names…
