The oldest Joker

Here’s what I found in a box. Not my box. Someone else’s box. Maybe an empty box.

cry,cry not-lie,lie not about shimmering temptations. temptations never come alone,they carry scary hunches about tastes,perfumes and gestures.
we were brought here in order to entice and be enticed. that is why our grins are putting on delicious wolfish smiles.
the hermits are the blessed,enlightened ones,dealing not at all with skin,lines and curves,which get us dizzy with shallow displays of bodies. take bare shoulders,for instance;they mean candy. therefore, tailors made up strapless evening gowns for fancy,bony ladies. such pieces of cloth make us deal no more with grasps of semiotics.
steeping into lust with bare feet makes us happy.
there’s no music in sheer happiness because happiness is deaf.
happiness looks sharp, tastes sweet and sounds like savage screams.

And now, I beg to differ, Miss Life. Oh, why am I calling you that? Because I am the Joker. Oldest Joker in the box. Joker Like tyrants, we, old Jokers have the privilege to classify people into very few meanings. You’re either Miss Life or Mrs. Death. Death is always paired. She doesn’t come alone. Life, on the other hand, is single. You get to love her or hate her, but in the end you’ll never forget her. Why do Jokers exist? I’m sure you’ve asked yourself. Like Lives, we entice others. Like Lives, we can be enticed, swept off our feet or even properly lovestruck without moving a hair off our eyebrow. And this is where my thoughts differ from yours, Miss Life – this is a humble Joker’s Gospel:

Never cry. When you shall walk through the valley of perfumes, through the forest of bitter-sweet gestures, you shall not lie down.
For yours is the great treasure, yours is Life!

Yet your being has only the reflection of your best smile into Life. That is your only true belonging and at the same time your essence. If Life is sad, your meaning has ended. If Life is happy – then you are happiness itself.

I’ve been there, Miss Life. I wasn’t deaf though. I looked sharp and I tasted like small caramelized black berries. And I do understand why someone younger would think I sounded like savage screams, because in the whole world I was probably the only one able to understand my act.

Let me tell you a story about bodies and meanings. I can do that because I am a Joker and I don’t need to mind my language, especially writing on black.
You are, naturally, right about shoulders. They mean candy. Strawberry, if you ask me. Like a prism, the flavor depends as much on the shoulders as on the beholder. So does, in general, beauty. Hips mean crème brûlée. Eyes closed, feel them by the sound and the air moving around them. Breasts mean embroidered silk. I’m thinking pearls, or smoothed rubies. As a Joker, I argue on their innate asymmetry – because one has a beating heart behind, giving rhythm to anything holding it warmly close. A slick, arched back means the empty space between two clouds, at night. Lips mean wine. I wouldn’t be as pathetically stereotypical about this if I weren’t absolutely sure. Thighs mean crystal, in the oven, being shaped into whatever your heart desires.

To end my Gospel –

It is not peace, but war, that you endlessly seek your Life for. Therefore, Joker, you shall never find her.
And she will never find you, because it is not happiness, but freedom, that she seeks.
When your fighting ends, she disappears. When her freedom is lost, you lay down and die.
Laugh, Joker, laugh!

Ridi, Pagliaccio…!

So, you see, Miss Life – there are no hermits. Just Jokers in disguise. We act very well.


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