He is a madman

I look up. The station’s large windows overlook the upper floor and are meant only to create a semblance of light, from space to sky. The madman, on the other hand, gestures, mumbles. He appears then runs away, stalls in the corner, looks out the window, gestures more, takes off his cap, and immediately puts it back on. His gestures are as oversized and chaotic as his thoughts.

Below, with me, are the ordinary, usual, well-dressed and above all relatively immobile people. They dream as much as the madman up there, but the wall of their mind is waterproof, articulated, without leakage.

There is very little difference between these two worlds. Moreover, if we were able to open the lid of the pots, we would likely discover more or less culinary mixtures of normality. We are all crazy, lost, but we know how to stand on the edges of a platform without throwing ourselves in front of the passing train.

Here we are, the train passes, slows down, stops, opens its doors, abandons its cargo, swallows us afterward. The madman doesn’t open any doors, all the windows are open. He’s not going anywhere, because he doesn’t know he’s in a place. I probably don’t know where I’m going either, but I’m happy to take the train and spend my time opening and closing doors.