I'm just writing this on impulse and it's got nothing to do with the original Pierrot or Dante's Inferno. Just a little food for thought, you know. Ranting your thoughts out once in a while is healthy (・ω・)/
んじゃ、そろそろ始めよう？
Sometimes he wonders why he's even doing this.
He straightened the creases on the ruffles of his collar, though he was sure it didn't make a difference. People pay to watch clowns perform stunts, not to watch what the clowns wear; he could've worn rags and the audience will still be none the wiser, he thinks.
Standing behind the stage curtains, he waited for his turn while trying not to choke on the acrid, pungent odor wafting out from the stage where they were trying to force horses to walk on planks without falling into an acid pool. The smell of charred flesh stung his nostrils, a single tear trickled down his left cheek, streaking a clear trail of black across his powder-white face. Outside, the crowds roared with excitement. He was sure none of the horses would survive.
Gradually his turn came and he took the stage under the glare of the spotlight. Shackles bound his wrists to the stage as he mimed agony, much to the delight of the audience. They roared with laughter as he pretended to be clumsy - tripping over his own feet, watering a flower pot with milk, forgetting that he was bound by chains and trying to leap off the stage. To them, it was a comedy, to see a man with a painted face struggling in front of them. To them, it was just a man they didn't know, much less seen his face under all the powder and grotesque painted markings. Seeing such a man make a fool out of himself gives them a feeling of superiority.
Well, it is after all, a comedy.
He dodged another three more cannonballs, the last one barely scraping the side of his cheek. A tiny woundoozed blood as he bowed to the people in front of him. He'd acted, he'd lied, he'd deceived, and now he was done. A small spark of triumph glowed as he realised he'd survived yet another show, but it was quickly diminished - the people out there would never know. He left the stage as quietly as he came.
He walked by the suits of armors, past the cages full of lethargic animals. The air smelt damp, musty even, but it was a relief from the outside world. He stopped in front of a mirror that hung from the side of the corridor as per usual, and he stared into it. An unfamiliar, sad face stared back at him and he grimaced, but a grin slowly spread across the gashed features. The comedy had not been in his acts, but in the audience. Oh yes, the divine comedy indeed. A never-ending paradox of sin; he chuckled appreciatively.
Plucking off the red nose, he threw it into the bin. He'd just watched another interesting show, once again. What a pathetic comedy.
(;´Д`)ノ
Yep, so that was that. And now it's time for me to retire to my room and dream of cotton candy. Yum.
んじゃ、そろそろ始めよう？
Sometimes he wonders why he's even doing this.
He straightened the creases on the ruffles of his collar, though he was sure it didn't make a difference. People pay to watch clowns perform stunts, not to watch what the clowns wear; he could've worn rags and the audience will still be none the wiser, he thinks.
Standing behind the stage curtains, he waited for his turn while trying not to choke on the acrid, pungent odor wafting out from the stage where they were trying to force horses to walk on planks without falling into an acid pool. The smell of charred flesh stung his nostrils, a single tear trickled down his left cheek, streaking a clear trail of black across his powder-white face. Outside, the crowds roared with excitement. He was sure none of the horses would survive.
Gradually his turn came and he took the stage under the glare of the spotlight. Shackles bound his wrists to the stage as he mimed agony, much to the delight of the audience. They roared with laughter as he pretended to be clumsy - tripping over his own feet, watering a flower pot with milk, forgetting that he was bound by chains and trying to leap off the stage. To them, it was a comedy, to see a man with a painted face struggling in front of them. To them, it was just a man they didn't know, much less seen his face under all the powder and grotesque painted markings. Seeing such a man make a fool out of himself gives them a feeling of superiority.
Well, it is after all, a comedy.
He dodged another three more cannonballs, the last one barely scraping the side of his cheek. A tiny woundoozed blood as he bowed to the people in front of him. He'd acted, he'd lied, he'd deceived, and now he was done. A small spark of triumph glowed as he realised he'd survived yet another show, but it was quickly diminished - the people out there would never know. He left the stage as quietly as he came.
He walked by the suits of armors, past the cages full of lethargic animals. The air smelt damp, musty even, but it was a relief from the outside world. He stopped in front of a mirror that hung from the side of the corridor as per usual, and he stared into it. An unfamiliar, sad face stared back at him and he grimaced, but a grin slowly spread across the gashed features. The comedy had not been in his acts, but in the audience. Oh yes, the divine comedy indeed. A never-ending paradox of sin; he chuckled appreciatively.
Plucking off the red nose, he threw it into the bin. He'd just watched another interesting show, once again. What a pathetic comedy.
(;´Д`)ノ
Yep, so that was that. And now it's time for me to retire to my room and dream of cotton candy. Yum.