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About This Author
My name is Joy, and I love to write.
Why poetry, here? Because poetry uplifts its writer, and if she is lucky enough, her readers, too. Around us, so many objects abound to write about. Once a poet starts with a smallest, most trivial object, he shall discover that his pen will spill out what is most delicate or most majestic hidden inside him. Since the classics sometimes dealt with lofty subjects with a lofty language, a person with poetry in his soul may incline to emulate that. That is understandable. Poetry does that to a person: it enlarges the soul and gives it wings. Yet, to really soar, a poet needs to take off from the ground.
 
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Daily Cascade #1096943 added September 8, 2025 at 1:29pm
Restrictions: None
Is Life a Farce?
Prompt:
“Bring down the curtain—the farce is over.”
The last words of French philosopher and comic, Francois Rabelais
What do you think of life? Is it really a farce?
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Who knows! Life may well be a farce. Yet, I'd hate to think this farce to be meaningless. After all, we all are players in life. Also, which one of us ever stops the search for meaning while we are alive?
No, we don't stop, and I won't stop. This is because life itself is fragile, and much of it can feel ridiculous, contradictory, and hollow. Yet, within the “farce” lies that search for meaning. And even foolish plays can carry a strange beauty. The awkward entrances, the ill-timed gestures, the hollow laughter...all of this is part of the spectacle.
Yes, after when the curtain finally lowers, footlights fade, and the painted backdrop collapses into shadow, the actors dissolve into silence. Moreover, so far that I know, there is no encore. Maybe, no applause either.
This could be because, in the first place, the set might have been borrowed, the lines half-learned, and the performance only temporary. So, this whole thing turns into a declaration that the roles we’ve been playing, the pretenses we’ve been maintaining, and the illusions we’ve been trapped in can no longer hold.
And that silence after the last curtain is the most honest thing. It asks for no more laughter, no more applause, no more frantic improvisation. It is just a release.
Maybe the deepest grace lies in bowing honestly at the end, knowing the farce was absurd, but that we gave it our brilliance, breath, and presence for as long as the curtain was lifted.
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