"What’s the point of all this charade?"

The old clown sat on a battered suitcase backstage at the circus, staring wistfully at his oversized, multicolored shoes. Once, they had been a symbol of joy and laughter, but now they reminded him of the fleeting nature of all things, just like his reflection in the cracked mirror. The makeup streaking down his wrinkled face looked like tears—not just the tears of a clown, but of a world tired of pretending to be happy.

"What’s the point of all this charade?" he thought, gazing at the peeling paint on the dressing room walls. "We step into the ring, make faces, stumble, act joyful, and then return to this emptiness, take off our masks, and face our sadness alone."

Suddenly, he heard a child’s laughter. A little girl with a big red balloon in her hand stood in the doorway, looking at him with awe. "Are you a clown?" she asked.

The old man smiled. "Yes," he replied, and there was more truth in that smile than in all his clownish grimaces. "Your balloon is so beautiful. But would you like another one?" he asked, pulling a brightly colored balloon from his pocket.

"Yes!" she exclaimed, holding out her hands.

The clown handed her the balloon and thought, "Maybe that’s the point—to bring joy to others, even when you feel sad yourself. After all, a child’s laughter is the purest and most genuine joy in the world."