THE FOOLISH SCRIBE

July 8th, 1725

Dearest Diary,

T'was a day of common jesting and extraordinary revelation - the year of our Lord, 1725.

No sun had presented itself today, its warmth remained absent, as if hiding behind the heavy grey clouds. In the pristine halls of King's court, my existence continues merely as that, of the jester. Amidst the joy of the court, the laughter and scorn, I mask my soul's longing for the lyrical symphony that quills serve upon parchment.

Today, the eyes of the court were on me, their laughter echoing through the golden halls and in my ears, and I went about my typical act - tripped over an intentionally misplaced stool, jangled my bells, contorted my face as comically as one can. Yet, my heart was not in the jest. My mind was somewhere between the flickering fireplaces and the shelves filled with leather-bound secrets, where my tool for creation awaited its intimate dance with ink under the solitary audience of the Moon.

In the court's grand library, a clandestine sanctuary for my clandestine dreams, I discovered prose and poetry that transcended the japes and jabs I am bound to bear. I secretly command words, stringing them together through the stolen night. A pauper in land, I am a king in words, a bard trapped in a joker’s façade. Each night under the cover of darkness, my quill becomes my scepter, the parchment my domain.

These stolen moments with literature make me yearn for them through the tiresome days, as I juggle balls and spill wine to amuse the nobles. The same nobles whom I believe might very well be intrigued if given a chance to hear my tales penned down in shy ink. I would kiss their feet if only to read to them.

Yet, therein lies my plight. The 18th-century court is a strict mould that refuses to bend to the aspirations of a jester. To them, my purpose lies in laugh alone, and a move towards intellectual pursuits is not only unexpected but unsuitable. Those such as I do not aspire to write, they say, that's the business of the learned and scholarly.

But the weight of the emotion I provoke (or don’t) is starting to feel too heavy, as the quill calls me from under feathered cap. I am torn between what I am and what I yearn to become. Do I dare to trade folly for thoughtfulness, to drop the mask, reveal the soul beneath the armor? Or will it only earn me further scorn and disapproval from those I wish to enlighten?

The hour grows late, and the castle settles into deep slumber. The quivering candles hiss warnings at me to retreat into my role or face the wrath tomorrow might bring. Yet, I cannot help but trace my fingers along the parchment, even as the threat of dawn looms. Moonlight bathes us both but I borrow a moment to inscribe unspoken desires tormenting my very heartbeat. I find myself cloaked in a caricature, shackles of mirth in the veil of merriment. The irony is not lost – a jester at the fore, a poet at the core, a writer clawing at the dappled surface of my misguided identity.

I've been the Fool, tumbling in motley attire for the nobility; I've been the Harlequin, moulded in the grotesque visage of unnatural gaiety. Yet every absurdity is but a concealment of the eloquent storyteller within, desiring only to have his tales heard, his chronicles shared, unmarred by the paint of the hidden grimace.

However, the tale of an imposter such as I, the 18th-century paradox, oh! It must remain a secret for now, imprisoned within these pages. But someday, I promise thee, this love will take form, and the world shall feast upon my words rather than witlessness. No one will go hungry.

END OF ENTRY.