The young madman

I could say that, with­out shame, I would have giv­en him the good Lord with­out a con­fes­sion. I prob­a­bly would have tak­en him quick­ly in my arms too. He is one of those faces that attract me, that move my desires and my crazy desire to have some­one with me.

I know many of these souls, these humans, young or old, beard­ed or slimmed down by old age. These are men, a hope for a peace that I claim. A chimera cer­tain­ly, because, until now, what I have touched and loved has flown away, has not stuck to my skin as they are told in books and myths, as they are told on television.

This one, at the begin­ning of that freez­ing after­noon, was sit­ting near the train door. Maybe in his ear­ly twen­ties, curly hair like Nel­li­gan. I could have sworn it was Nel­li­gan. Ten­der, fever­ish eyes, lost face, some­times fuelled by a grin com­ing either from a crazy idea or a schiz­o­phrenic dream. With­out any real mus­cle, a pair of jeans that were too short and showed pup­pet ankles.

From time to time, his gaze met mine with­out dwelling on me. But dur­ing these moments, I could admire his bal­anced fea­tures, his round iris­es of opi­um, his beard of an awk­ward viril­i­ty. I saw a man in it, a force that did­n’t seem to be able to hold its own.

More­over, his pro­files, both the left and the right, his pro­files that I could often observe because his face did not stay in place, they were not as well designed as his hag­gard facade. I repeat, I would have tak­en him in my arms, this mad­man, prob­a­bly, this child-man wound­ed by a pos­si­ble tare. I would have brought him home and placed him in my bed, not to usurp his flesh, but only to cling to him and remem­ber the warmth of the stormy inno­cence of an emo­tion­al and lost youth, the one that lan­guish­es in my mem­o­ries, that I let slip away like all of you who weave your wool, your lives on creak­ing looms.

I often meet some of these men. They are waves plant­i­ng on the waters of life. I know noth­ing about them, noth­ing about their sali­va, much less their fever. And if I could know them all, would my thirst be con­quered ? Ask­ing the ques­tion is the answer. And the answer is to want to keep drink­ing and believing.