A Jester for a Wish
“My dear, express your wish.”
The voice of the gentle jester reaches me muffled due to the disorder and chaos around me.
Suddenly I turn towards him, feeling a light and small, almost insignificant, connection with this shabby little puppet.
I give him an absent look.
Is it possible that he is judging me by my condition?
Instinctively, I take a critical look of myself: my tank top is creased, the khaki pants are all crinkled (my mother wouldn't be happy with this informal term) and the shoes I'm wearing look a few sizes smaller.
God, can I be reduced like this at just 24 years?
Evidently if I'm here, the answer is yes.
“My dear, express your wish.”
The metallic voice reaches me again and I look at him in amazement: will he ever get tired of repeating the same phrase over and over again? It must be annoying to hear the stupid and material desires of others.
Or not?
Maybe I'm just going crazy.
It's all my khaki pants' fault.
I give him another look, hoping it will be as judgmental as his: the harlequin-colored hat is all creased, almost dusty; the hands look wrinkled, almost like those of an old man at the end of his life; the wrinkles around his eyes only remind me of sadness, not joy; and the eyes? Can they be expressive? Is that nostalgia or is it pain?
Maybe I'm really going crazy.
I approach, almost expecting hi
m to attack me, but nothing happens.
Yes, it's all the fault of those damn khaki pants.
I'm almost about to change the subject of my inquiring gaze when I feel a small grip on my arm.
I don't turn around right away, I let that contact last as long as the blink of an eye: enough to make me stay, not enough to make me run away.
I turn around, expecting a human figure ready to judge me by my appearance, but unexpectedly I find the famous jester in front of me. Can a jester be famous?
“My dear, your desire.”
The voice sounds empty, like inside a glass bell and I am enchanted by it. Am I the victim and he is the mermaid?
“I have no desires.” I respond absorbed, staring intensely at those expressionless eyes.
Can an object express pain? Why do I feel it, then? What does he really want to tell me?
“My dear, I notice your wishes, why don't you say them out loud? What are you afraid of?”"
His gaze softens and I notice the wrinkles on his face relaxing.
“You can't say you've lived if you've never wanted something, my dear.”
His grip loosens and he goes back to being just a shabby jester once again, clinging to a cheap children’s toy.
I stare at it. I really do.
And I'm almost scared.
How long had he been watching me?
I notice the wrinkles on his face: they are back to the way they were before, but not the eyes; is it possible that they are kinder towards the world?
Instinctively I close my eyes and make my wish.
Without saying anything else I turn around, almost expecting to be chased, but no one stops me.
Only a light breeze accompanies me home, twirling gracefully around me.
Want to be loved? Or desire to love? Find the answers within yourself, my dear.
