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.