How many of us are there? We must be with more then I used to think or believe . Maybe we are a majority? No, that would be an exagerration. Still, everyday I meet more jesters. And while all jesters share some basic interests, there is a wide variety among us. You have happy jesters, angry jesters, sweet jasters, loving jasters, hateful jesters, funny jesters, boring jesters and so on. I'm one of those jesters that keeps on moving, ignoring every fiber that says: STOP!
How nice must it be, to be able to put all your emotions into a song, to hit every chord of existence with just your voice? It must be such a privilige, it has to feel great, suffer but being able to express your suffering. The same goes for playing an instrument. Some jesters posses the magic to create sounds with their piano or guitar, if not their voice. And there is no problem for a jester without a singing voice or without the talent of creating music, as that jester has other options. But for me it is a problem, because I do have beautiful words and songs and music inside of me, but I am unable to express them, they are stuck inside and eat me from within.
Then you have the jesters, the ones that mastered painting, creators of beautiful sculptures. The first ones have a steady hand, the latter ones create beauty from mass. And they are hard working people, they express the beauty inside of their minds. How I wish I had a steady hand, to paint the perfection I have in my mind. How I would love to create a unique creature out of a big mass. And again, wanting to free themselves from my mind, these images eat me from inside, crying to be free.
It's incredible how she moves, it is pure art. She did put a lot of effort in it, her focus is out of reach for me. And with dancing, she reveals that life is beautiful, she shows that there is beauty and elegance, purely in movement. And how sure I am of the fact that inside there is a dancer fighting to be free, to move and dance into freedom. But captured in the prison of shame, of public opinion and cowardness, it went to sit in a corner. Now that dancer is unable to stretch its legs, awaits death, and just smiles by thinking of a beautiful dance with a dancing queen.
The last resort in trying to express the anger and desperation inside, is to become a writer, a poet. So many times we read stories and wonder how the writer can touch us so deeply, so accurately? Even a writer from the 18th century can write in a way that we think 'I could've written the same thing'. As all human beings, a jester has stories to tell, perhaps even more and better ones. Not being able to find the right words, I tried and I tried but in the end I had to admit it: I am not a writer, not a poet. I failed the last source to express my thoughts, feelings, hopes and dreams, my anger. What was left?
And so I became part of the subgroup of jesters, the one group a jester never wants to end up in. Plenty of jesters choose death above becoming one of us. But we, the ones alive, we accept it, me and the others belonging to the gang of Unexpressive Artists. There are many of us. Some are managers, others present radio or tv-shows, some became doctors, lawyers, accountants. But it seems that we are all over the place. And we all try to move on, sadly accepting and expressing our Unexpressive art.
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