This is something different and deep. Its about the behaviour of a comedian when he is performing and when he is alone. Enjoy reading!
He had the walk of a lion, head held high and chest puffed out. He walked like he owned the place; majestic and in all his glory. And then the crowd burst into fits of laughter. Apparently, he has aced the 'sense of humour' test. He's so different from your everyday comedian; he is funny but magnificent. His voice booms of pride and reeks of the ego he harbours but he is pretending it is an act. He thinks he is just showing how mighty he is; but in reality that's how he has become. He is throwing jokes around like graduation caps on graduation day while remaining completely stoic about it. Like he has mastered the art. People are doubling over, patting their stomachs with teary eyes, gasping for breath.
He is like a magician. The room that was silent two minutes ago is roaring with laughter and giggles. His lip twitches upwards, the smirk of a man who thinks he is above all, as though he is taking pride in his victory. And then his smile widens almost reaching his eye. Suddenly, the ever so great man was replaced with a poor old fellow showcasing his perfect set of crooked teeth. It looked like a miracle happening. He looked like a man who found an oasis in the midst of a dry hot desert. He looked so happy. So genuine. It completely contradicted the egoistic-man facade he displayed when he had entered. His eyes looked like tiny buttons surrounded by innumerable wrinkles and crinkles,shoulders slumped and feet happily tapping away to a beat only he seemed to hear. He looked like a man swimming in a pool of joy.
Right in the middle of his performance he decided to remove the coat that seemed to suffocate him. What a display of comfort. He no longer stood rigidly in the centre of the podium. He moved constantly, his pot belly swaying with the motion. The sleek look that his hair was set in was long gone. Instead there were disobedient curls and untucked buttons on his 'corset-like' shirt. He looked like he fit in. He felt like he fit in. For once. There was another wave of loud manner less laughter. But he seemed even more encouraged. Basking in his success, laughing with the people he called 'his friends' then and again.
He knew what he was doing. He appeared to be someone of experience; every sway of hand, every eye roll, every word had a purpose. In his final act his tone was even higher. He was enjoying the laughter of the viewers more than they were. He looked sated, like some life goal was accomplished. When he left the podium, he looked a happy lad, but the emotionless man seemed to resurface. The crinkle around his eye lessened and he was sucked back into reality. But he never dropped the small smile. There was a sliver of hope. He looked like a man set onto doing something. Something of greatness equivalent to his.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
He looked like a truck had just run over him. After the concluding act of his gig he requested not to be disturbed for long; a request he often made. He looked in the crystal framed mirror, his eyes ever so hollow and his face devoid of emotions. He looked horrible. He didn't feel any less. This felt like a routine, making people laugh and then staring blankly at himself in the mirror for long lengths of time; reflecting upon his life and his choices.
The tough-royal-man mask that he exhibited to others was gone. He felt raw, but he despised if anyone saw him this way. A loud silence blanketed the room, blanketed his thoughts. His white shirt was untucked and the sheen look he had on previously, was replaced with one of tiredness and desperation. Small delicate curls peeked out of the unbuttoned regions of his shirt, and his voluptuous belly promised to tear the shirt apart. He looked so lost, like he had given up.
He could be all sorts of men, but a happy one. He let loose in his performance that night, he allowed himself to be happy with the smiling faces of teens, toddlers and adults; and he wouldn't stop scolding himself for it. He longingly looked into the mirror, only to see the man he once was. This fetched him immense displeasure. He wanted to yell at someone or something, but words did not come out. He wanted to break something, but his hands were unwilling to move. It was almost like he was left to drown in his own agony and pain, something that scared him to bits.
Blacks and greys, and streaks of pure white cheekily peeked out of his sad mop of dishevelled hair. He looked like he aged a hundred years in the span of an hour. He was a man of words, but words seemed to fail him. A copy of the extravagant and always-smiling Mona Lisa hung from the wall beside his mirror; but even she looked so sadly at him, with a look of pure pity.
No. He did not want anyone's pity. He did not want anyone's anything. He captured the roots of his hair between the spaces among his fingers and finally; FINALLY let out an ear-piercing scream. That felt good. That felt like a small piece of his burden was removed. But the scream brought only momentary satisfaction. It did no good. The emptiness was back and this time even harsher.
He closed his eyes and saw her. Her beautiful luscious mane flying in the wind and her smile lighting his world. He saw her mesmerising eyes, shades of brown and specks of black. He had never seen freckles look so good on anyone. She was perfect. Elegant. Bubbly.
He was not a comedian. He was the ghost of a man who used to love to laugh and make others laugh. He was just the body of that man, His soul was lost the day he lost her.
Quotes by great comedians:-
"You're only given a little spark of madness. You mustn't lose it." -Late Robin Williams.
"My focus is to forget the pain of life. Forget the pain, mock the pain, reduce it. And laugh." -Jim Carrey
"I have many problems in my life. But my lips don't know that. They always smile." - The Great Charlie Chaplin
He had the walk of a lion, head held high and chest puffed out. He walked like he owned the place; majestic and in all his glory. And then the crowd burst into fits of laughter. Apparently, he has aced the 'sense of humour' test. He's so different from your everyday comedian; he is funny but magnificent. His voice booms of pride and reeks of the ego he harbours but he is pretending it is an act. He thinks he is just showing how mighty he is; but in reality that's how he has become. He is throwing jokes around like graduation caps on graduation day while remaining completely stoic about it. Like he has mastered the art. People are doubling over, patting their stomachs with teary eyes, gasping for breath.
He is like a magician. The room that was silent two minutes ago is roaring with laughter and giggles. His lip twitches upwards, the smirk of a man who thinks he is above all, as though he is taking pride in his victory. And then his smile widens almost reaching his eye. Suddenly, the ever so great man was replaced with a poor old fellow showcasing his perfect set of crooked teeth. It looked like a miracle happening. He looked like a man who found an oasis in the midst of a dry hot desert. He looked so happy. So genuine. It completely contradicted the egoistic-man facade he displayed when he had entered. His eyes looked like tiny buttons surrounded by innumerable wrinkles and crinkles,shoulders slumped and feet happily tapping away to a beat only he seemed to hear. He looked like a man swimming in a pool of joy.
Right in the middle of his performance he decided to remove the coat that seemed to suffocate him. What a display of comfort. He no longer stood rigidly in the centre of the podium. He moved constantly, his pot belly swaying with the motion. The sleek look that his hair was set in was long gone. Instead there were disobedient curls and untucked buttons on his 'corset-like' shirt. He looked like he fit in. He felt like he fit in. For once. There was another wave of loud manner less laughter. But he seemed even more encouraged. Basking in his success, laughing with the people he called 'his friends' then and again.
He knew what he was doing. He appeared to be someone of experience; every sway of hand, every eye roll, every word had a purpose. In his final act his tone was even higher. He was enjoying the laughter of the viewers more than they were. He looked sated, like some life goal was accomplished. When he left the podium, he looked a happy lad, but the emotionless man seemed to resurface. The crinkle around his eye lessened and he was sucked back into reality. But he never dropped the small smile. There was a sliver of hope. He looked like a man set onto doing something. Something of greatness equivalent to his.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
He looked like a truck had just run over him. After the concluding act of his gig he requested not to be disturbed for long; a request he often made. He looked in the crystal framed mirror, his eyes ever so hollow and his face devoid of emotions. He looked horrible. He didn't feel any less. This felt like a routine, making people laugh and then staring blankly at himself in the mirror for long lengths of time; reflecting upon his life and his choices.
The tough-royal-man mask that he exhibited to others was gone. He felt raw, but he despised if anyone saw him this way. A loud silence blanketed the room, blanketed his thoughts. His white shirt was untucked and the sheen look he had on previously, was replaced with one of tiredness and desperation. Small delicate curls peeked out of the unbuttoned regions of his shirt, and his voluptuous belly promised to tear the shirt apart. He looked so lost, like he had given up.
He could be all sorts of men, but a happy one. He let loose in his performance that night, he allowed himself to be happy with the smiling faces of teens, toddlers and adults; and he wouldn't stop scolding himself for it. He longingly looked into the mirror, only to see the man he once was. This fetched him immense displeasure. He wanted to yell at someone or something, but words did not come out. He wanted to break something, but his hands were unwilling to move. It was almost like he was left to drown in his own agony and pain, something that scared him to bits.
Blacks and greys, and streaks of pure white cheekily peeked out of his sad mop of dishevelled hair. He looked like he aged a hundred years in the span of an hour. He was a man of words, but words seemed to fail him. A copy of the extravagant and always-smiling Mona Lisa hung from the wall beside his mirror; but even she looked so sadly at him, with a look of pure pity.
No. He did not want anyone's pity. He did not want anyone's anything. He captured the roots of his hair between the spaces among his fingers and finally; FINALLY let out an ear-piercing scream. That felt good. That felt like a small piece of his burden was removed. But the scream brought only momentary satisfaction. It did no good. The emptiness was back and this time even harsher.
He closed his eyes and saw her. Her beautiful luscious mane flying in the wind and her smile lighting his world. He saw her mesmerising eyes, shades of brown and specks of black. He had never seen freckles look so good on anyone. She was perfect. Elegant. Bubbly.
He was not a comedian. He was the ghost of a man who used to love to laugh and make others laugh. He was just the body of that man, His soul was lost the day he lost her.
Quotes by great comedians:-
"You're only given a little spark of madness. You mustn't lose it." -Late Robin Williams.
"My focus is to forget the pain of life. Forget the pain, mock the pain, reduce it. And laugh." -Jim Carrey
"I have many problems in my life. But my lips don't know that. They always smile." - The Great Charlie Chaplin