The jester belongs to the court.
Not because the court loves him.
Courts do not love.
They consume.
And this particular court
has never needed walls.
It lives behind his eyes.
Every throne is a thought
telling him he is not enough.
Every executioner
wears his own voice.
Every blade is sharpened
by something he has believed about himself
for too long.
The court does not sleep.
It watches.
It keeps records.
Every mistake entered into the ledger.
Every failure underlined.
Every unfinished thing
dragged before the throne
and made to explain itself.
There is no appeal.
The king is the voice
that says:
Not good enough.
The queen is the voice
that answers:
Never was.
The courtiers laugh
whenever something goes wrong.
And the jester—
the jester is the only one
allowed to speak.
So he makes himself useful.
Bells on his sleeves.
Paint on his face.
A talent for becoming whatever
the room requires.
Musician.
Painter.
Storyteller.
Cook.
Craftsman.
Dungeon Master.
Give him a blank page
and he will build a world.
Give him clay
and he will give it a face.
Give him strangers
and he will make them laugh.
Give him a monster
and he will find its childhood.
Give him a crown
and he will teach it how to look ridiculous.
The court applauds.
Then asks what else he can do.
So he does more.
Of course he does.
That is how the court keeps him alive:
by convincing him
that usefulness is the same thing
as worth.
He becomes indispensable
to a kingdom
that would replace him
the moment he stopped performing.
And still—
the court is hungry.
It feeds on everything.
Every embarrassment.
Every ugly thought.
Every secret.
Every failure.
Every small cruelty
he remembers committing
and every cruelty
he is certain he deserves.
It gives him all of it.
Swallow this.
So he does.
Down goes the poison.
He digests the kingdom\'s hatred
and returns smiling.
Sometimes the court grows bored.
Then it whispers:
Faster.
Better.
More.
You can do more.
Full speed ahead.
Until the fuel runs dry.
And when he finally falters,
the court does not comfort him.
It applauds.
Because exhaustion
is proof of devotion.
Because pain
is evidence that he tried.
Because the court has taught him
to mistake punishment for discipline
and destruction for honesty.
Even the mirrors belong to it.
They never show a face.
Only evidence.
A failed artist.
A failed master.
A failed person.
The jester looks into the glass
and sees a collection of almosts
wearing bells.
Still, he performs.
He tells jokes for the voices.
Builds worlds for the voices.
Paints for the voices.
Feeds the voices.
And when the court inside his skull
becomes too loud,
he finds another way
to interrupt it—
something painful enough
to make every other thought
go quiet for a moment.
The court approves.
Not kindly.
Never kindly.
But with silence.
And silence, here,
is the closest thing to mercy
the kingdom has ever offered.
Morning comes.
The bells return.
The jester returns.
He makes things.
He swallows things.
He smiles.
And nobody notices
that the court has stopped sitting
somewhere outside him.
There is no throne room anymore.
There is only the throne.
Only the king.
Only the audience.
Only the jester.
All of them wearing
the same face.
And perhaps that is the final trick:
the jester spends his whole life
trying to escape the court,
only to discover
the court was never waiting for him
outside.
It was the voice
that taught him
to hate himself
in its name.