Whimsical melancholy

I was once beautiful before I watched myself die. I was in love with the Shakespearen farrows of comedic tragedy since my early youth. I found myself a teen weeping at the thought of the enchanting frivolity of Mercutio being slaughtered in cold blood by Tybalt. I never cared for the ignorant Romeo and Juliet, with their boring and stupid ideas of love. In the doldrum acts of my so-called life that deemed itself my “comedy career,” my sidekick gig with Krusty the Klown was a dredge of my life source and a painful period.

Being tortured for laughs, being shot out of a cannon and having children adore that tub of lard with no talent while I stood on the sidelines. I was humbled by the fact that no one really cared about my existence and others with no idea of what entertainment truly meant could be famous for almost no real logical reason. They just… exist and they have it all.

I believed my life was Shakespeare in living color. I believed I was destined for something more.

My life changed when I found myself catapulted out of obscurity and had my own show. I was teaching culture, self-esteem… art! But of course that was not to last forever. That meddling Bart Simpson halted my success and I landed in prison for committing that Kwik-E-Mart robbery. And… for framing Krusty.

Love has also been an integral evasive measure on my part in regard to my personal life.

I never thought I could or should have that intangible thread of humanity in my head, heart and spirit. Then I had Francesca. She was lovely, talented (with a knife) and we had a child together, Gino.

I did fall for her. She was a very strong yet sweet little firecracker. I lost my family due to the obsession of revenge.

Revenge was my love, ultimately. Even as I loved my family, in my own misguided ways.

I wrote this poem as I began my plummeting downfall and spiral into despair and insanity:

Cuts bond my brain, but

Who am I? A lost man dead

Cut a soul, my own.

That was the haiku that made me realize I was not trying to murder Bart or get vengeance anymore. I was trying to murder myself. The essence of who I was. The very breakdown of chemically imbalanced proteins and hormones and malformed atoms that made me, me.

The journey that led me here was a tragicomedy. A Shakespeare story without merit, logic or sensibility. I wanted to merely be the clown who was accepted, not mocked.

I was a man who had been given more than most, yet I squandered it for cheap power and vengeance on someone who only wanted Justice.

My life was a dark comedy, I decided. In jail I was hardened and casted out as a pariah. I had been living in a rat infested hellhole that was my mind.

Until… Tara came along. A strange mysterious creature with long brown hair and a smile that suggested seduction yet poise. I was immediately entranced with them and found myself talked with them as much as I had a chance.

We met in prison and as we both got out, we continued to discuss about life, art and history. Everything, really.

“Why are your eyes always so angry, Bob?” Tara asked me once.

I shrugged. “You might’ve mistaken anger for passion, my dear.”

Tara chuckled, mirthlessly, “The funny thing about both of those is either one can get you into a lot of trouble.”

I laughed, moving closer to them on my couch.

Their eyes were a deep brown. I stared deeply into their eyes and saw a tinge of red hit their cheeks.

“So, do you often feel trouble is worth it when the right person or situation comes along?” I whispered.

“Don’t get fresh!” Tara swatted the air and I grinned. We both laughed and I sighed.

“Pray tell, Tara; why are your eyes always so sad?”

Tara looked down and bit their lip. “You might’ve mistaken that for whimsical melancholy.”

I felt my eyes widen and my stance shifted. “A whimsical melancholy, you say? I never heard of such a thing. Would you care to… elucidate?”

There was a heavy silence in the air that hung between us.

I have known Tara since last year, early May. A foggy and shady sort of period wherein I found myself with Tara whenever I could find them. I protected them for other foolish and dangerous inmates. Tara was one to hold their own. However, others… misunderstood them. I didn’t. They were different. Like me.

I knew that Tara was once a man, but now they were becoming who they always were: an enchanting lady with no nonsense ideals and a very strong intellect.

Tara finally answered, like a peel of sad laughter, “Because your punchlines kill me.”

We were beautiful before I watched myself die. I felt myself sinking and floating at the same time Tara uttered that booming sentence that felt like a sword, yet strangely enough, healed me.

I leaned forward after I caught my breath.

I told them in a single look my feelings, and Tara kissed my cheek so softly, so sweetly, with such a force and strength…

I lingered in their arms; I was a new man.