That of a jester.

No, it isn't blissful. It isn't very brave, either. Of all the things that you convinced me for what you were, disappointment wasn't quite a noun present. But then again, I fail to make anything out of you, all of a sudden. I've damaged my own confidence to its debris, for I have not a hint of what goes on in your head; what's been going on in your head. You're the death of a Confrontationalist. The meaningful stays within you bottled up, while all the meaningless rubbish you reiterate from time to time gets on my nerves, what a fool you are. Or what I fool, have I been?

Your repartee stymies me, they aren't enjoyable anymore.

There was a sense of kindness in your eyes, which you try to elude now. There was a sense of honesty in all your joys and laughter, and just why don't they feel sincere anymore? 

You look to me, like an insecure creature of the wild who's been betrayed by its animal instincts.  You're right to be cautious, but what I see is denial. 

Please don't make me regret what doesn't deserve to be, go right ahead and prove me wrong. You're terribly precious a comfort, unabashedly and unjustly important. Your ignorance is sinful, it isn't near to bliss. 

A sad joker haunts; take off that hat, throw away the red ping pong on your nose, your paper painted face must be washed, fall out of that green suit, and wipe off that chalked smile.

Come back, dear boy. Recognition awaits you.
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(Don't ask.  Brain farts have been taking over my existence and I promised fiction, yes I did.)


-Nil.