Why the fool became Jester

I was once an engineer, a philosopher, a physicist, a laborer, a father, a husband—perhaps famous to a degree, occasionally regarded as a 'wise guy,' whatever that means. Then came the diagnosis—a sobering knock of mortality at life's door, more akin to a sentence of death. Suddenly, I stood at the crossroads of existence, surrounded by a crowd playing out their assigned roles with feverish sincerity: doctors and nurses, kings and queens, heroes and villains, warriors and poets, Trumps and Musks, each deeply entangled in a story they believed mattered.

But none of these roles resonated with me. Kings held imaginary power while lust for power smirked gleefully, queens chased vanity, trying to hide their ugliness, heroes hunted validation, and villains desired attention. Warriors fought battles of ego, poets wrote verses of self-pity. Every role demanded seriousness, and seriousness was the chain that kept them bound to the illusion.

That's when I noticed a quiet figure dancing lightly among them, unnoticed yet smiling—the Jester. He mocked gently, laughed softly, and played skillfully. The Jester's laughter wasn't cruel; it was a liberation, a delicate touch nudging the sleepers awake, someone who could laugh at the seriousness of kings without losing his head.

And so, with curiosity, I chose this role—the Jester, but I was still a fool in doing that too, so why not wearing the family name proudly? It fit perfectly, for I desired neither crown nor praise, neither victory nor defeat. My only mission was to reflect humanity's absurd seriousness back upon itself, to unveil life's cosmic joke, and to help others realize that beneath our carefully crafted illusions, we are all equally foolish.

By becoming the Jester, I embraced humility over pride, humor over righteousness, playfulness over solemnity. In this laughter, I found clarity. In foolishness, I discovered wisdom.

Or, what do I know? I'm a fool, aren't I?