Makeup and Purple Suits
He's a clown. He won't deny it. He's a joke, a horrible pun, and an overused cliché. He is the personification of a bad joke.
He wouldn't have it any other way.
The Joker never really understood why purple, of all colors, was never associated with clowns very much. There was a purple dinosaur, so why couldn't there be a purple clown?
There's a first time for everything, especially for murderous criminals.
So when he starts going out a bit more, he puts on the purple suit. He robs groceries and family-owned restaurants, he gives himself a bit of a name- but then he gets caught, and the purple suit gets taken away.
When he breaks out, the Joker considered donning a different color. So he does. He puts on a yellow suit, but now- now it just doesn't feel the same.
And it's just a whim, but it's nothing very serious, is it? It's just a purple suit that he wears when he goes out at night. He doesn't even know why he's doing what he's doing- he only knows that he's going to keep wearing the suit.
A green shirt and striped pants
He is slowly becoming that suit. He is attempting more daring heists, holding up bigger and bigger establishments, and all the while he is wearing that suit. The suit makes him feel alive.
One day, he decides that he might as well add some items to his little costume. The next time he puts on his purple suit he puts on a green shirt and striped pants as well- because, he thinks, if he's becoming the mask he might as well make the mask a little flashier.
Nobody else has dyed their hair. He will be the first one to do so, because he is going to be different from the rest. He will be better than the rest by dying his hair. He will be stronger than the rest by looking different, because he has nothing else that can make him superior to any other criminal. He is just one of dozens of criminals gathering in Gotham's streets, and the only thing he can do to show that he is the Joker is to look different, and the only thing that can give him some sense of identity isn't his achievements, because he doesn't have many of those, but his appearance, which is so superficial that it almost makes him laugh.
And he wonders why he doesn't just laugh, because he's the Joker, isn't he?
Sure, they'll stop a knife, but the Joker knows that that isn't the real reason why he puts them on. He looks at them and asks himself "why not?"
But he's always avoiding the important question. He's avoiding the question "why?"
What's the use of covering up more skin? Why is he putting on gloves? Why not just leave them at home? Hell, why is he being a criminal? He can get a job. He can have a life. Why, why, why, why, why?
But the black gloves will go on his hands at the end of the day, no matter how much he asks himself why and no matter how hard he tries to avoid the questions. Everybody wears black gloves, but not everybody is a criminal, and not every criminal doubts.
And only one man doubts himself so much that he doubts the very action of putting on black gloves.
The knives are a personal touch. He is marking his kill with the stab marks and slash wounds. He is telling the police and the other criminals that he is the one who has brutally murdered this innocent man.
But the doubt keeps piling up and up and up until it reaches the sky. It doesn't help that he's growing more notorious. It doesn't help that his bounty is growing higher and higher. His knives tell people to watch out for the Joker, but he still can't help but feel that behind the mask he's nobody. He still can't help but feel that the mask itself is so flimsy that it'll break once somebody applies the slightest pressure.
The knives are a brutal, inhumane touch, but he is wallowing in his doubt too much to realize. His knives are cold, hard, steel, and maybe that's exactly what he should become to escape the doubt.
But he's the Joker, and the Joker has to dance.
He dabs the makeup on his face every week. It gets ruined in the fights and the chases, but he keeps putting it on, because it is what makes him who he is now. Just like the purple suit and the green shirt and the striped pants, just like the dyed hair and the black gloves and the cold, sharp, knives, the white makeup is part of the Joker. It puts the last piece in the mask into place.
He's a clown that has no more tricks to show the audience. He's a jester that has ran out of jokes, but he puts on the white makeup anyways because maybe it'll give him more of an identity that he knows he doesn't really have. He is the Joker, but the Joker can be replaced by any of the criminals that put on a costume and dance around. He is no more of a person than any of them, but when he covers up his face with that makeup he is sealing the person he once was behind bars. The mask is complete now, but the mask is as ordinary as any other criminal's.
He doesn't remember who gave him his smile. He only remembers the pain. And now the mask has been broken and the man underneath is showing through- except he isn't a man anymore, he is not a human anymore, he is a monster now.
He is raw and unrefined. There is no more doubt anymore, because he knows that he can see (or is he blind?) and the rest of the criminals cannot. There is no more mask and there is no more man underneath the mask, there is only the Joker. He has no more rules because that's how humans should live life.
And now he's always smiling. Now he's always laughing at his own doubt, laughing at his rivals and his enemies. Now he's laughing at the double life he once led, now he's laughing at his pathetic attempts at individuality. Now he's laughing at Gotham. Now he's laughing at life.
He's laughing at a bad joke for all eternity now.
Let's put a smile on that face.
Review, please, and if you have the time, try to make it as long as possible. All criticism is welcome. The longer, the better!