No Madman’s Story

The rain fell incessantly, a dreary, monotonous drizzle that I found oddly comforting. As people hurried past, their colourful umbrellas providing a stark contrast to the sombre backdrop, my gaze was drawn to the man seated on a bench. Each heavy droplet seemed to land on him with purpose, yet gently. Although quite far from where I stood, I could sense the rhythmic pitter-patter echoing on him like the melancholic notes of a worn piano playing Chopin’s Nocturne in B-flat minor. Surrounded by the symphony of wind, despite its haunting and trembling whistle, the man remained unmoved. Not even the fiercest storm could dislodge him from his place; he seemed rooted, an indomitable force fused with the very essence of the Earth. For him, there existed no sky, no clouds, no rain. People walked by, oblivious to his simple existence and disregarding him entirely, as if he were a ghost. A ghost I appeared to see. He seemed frozen, as though petrified by time, leaving him a statue in the midst of life’s flow. His gaze remained fixed on the ground, devoid of any emotion and his stillness was unsettling. Nevertheless, his slow blinks indicated his continued existence, burdened by an invisible and unbearable weight.

Never had I ever witnessed such a profound manifestation of loneliness. He appeared isolated, so utterly isolated that his presence felt almost non-existent. He resembled one of those cursed artists, rejected and left aside by the life he cherished too ardently. What had transpired to cast such a shadow over him? Was it the loss of a loved one, a shattered romance, or perhaps devastating news? The possibilities raced through my mind, compelling me to seek answers. The man remained motionless, as though bearing a weighty secret upon his shoulders. Life can be unforgiving at times, unfurling its cruelties with an unrelenting hand and appearing to open Pandora’s box to its most loyal subjects. I couldn’t merely stand by, a passive observer to his suffering. I needed to understand what plagued him. I longed to grasp the torment besieging him, to discern which monstrous force could unleash such chaos and reduce a man to such devastation.

Why did I feel moved by his apparent misfortune? Or was I merely drawn to the sudden wave of melancholy that enveloped him, capturing my attention so intensely? With determination fuelling my steps, I resolved to approach him, to shatter the oppressive silence enveloping him like a veil he wore like a garment. What if I sat down next to him and asked the reason for his suffering? Would he answer me? Would he listen to me and look up from the ground he was staring at for hours? With each stride, I dared to hope he would welcome my presence, that my inquiry wouldn’t fall on deaf ears. “I have to know,” the mantra echoed in my mind as I closed the distance.

As I approached what felt like my undeniable destiny, each step weighed heavier than the last. My feet sank into the ground as if swallowed by sand. I felt like I was nearing a treasure encircled by traps meticulously laid by its creators. And there I was, ensnared. The spider had spun its web: had I stumbled into it, or had I instead willingly descended into its depths? Perhaps I was the spider, a creature weary of waiting, poised for the hunt. After all, the spider is a living creature, and like all living creatures, it must feed. Did I view this man as prey, or rather as someone who could assuage my nearly obsessive curiosity? How could I discern? Animals don’t possess such introspective understanding; they are driven solely by their instincts.

Thus, I found myself descending into the abyss I had excavated. Walking down the stairs, each step seemed to deepen a chasm as dark as the void trailing behind me. With no possibility of retreat, I soon found myself standing face-to-face with the man. Suddenly, the purpose of my visit eluded me. What brought me here? It certainly wasn’t for poetry. Or was it? I looked up and beheld the picture forming before me. The man, of course. He appeared exactly as I had envisioned, yet true to my expectations, he did not lift his gaze. I stood right before him, motionless. My feet occupied his line of sight, right in the centre, but he remained unresponsive, as though his eyes couldn’t perceive. They were devoid of all vitality, devoid of even the faintest glimmer as if his soul had extinguished. One could have believed he had gazed into the very face of death. And despite being soaked by the rain, he was soiled with deep dirt; insects crawled over him while dead leaves clung to his skin. It appeared as though he had been seated there for an eternity, a silent witness to the passage of ages.

I stood there, fascinated yet also gripped by a creeping sense of terror. Before me, it was as if I beheld a living masterpiece, a canvas breathed into existence by nature’s own hand. My gaze lingered upon him, and what I saw was nothing short of perfection personified. Every contour of his form, every line etched upon his visage spoke volumes of a sublime chaos—an exquisite fusion of pain and beauty. His very being seemed carved from the fabric of light and shadow, casting an ethereal glow that whispered of ancient mysteries. His garments, tattered and begrimed by nature’s children, only served to enhance his aura of desolation. In his eyes, upon his face and within his stance lingered a profound sadness. He was more than a mere figure; he was an enigma cloaked in the guise of a beast, yet within him pulsed a majestic essence that defied simple definition—a presence that commanded reverence even as it inspired fear. He was perfect. He was a masterpiece. It was him; melancholy himself. The paintings of Rembrandt and the sonnets of Shakespeare paled in comparison to him. He embodied a reality more vivid and a beauty more profound than any canvas or verse could ever hope to convey.

Tears were sliding down my cheeks. Was I filled with sadness, happiness, or maybe both at the same time? Before me, life and death mingled in a celestial dance, where each element merged to create a rainbow of colours never seen before. And I could have remained there, staring at this portrait before me for all eternity without ever growing weary. What have I done in my life, O God, to be blessed with such abundance? Did I truly merit such magnificence? Such work! Why was I the only one to see it, to perceive it? If I could, why not others too? This man who appeared before me as bright as light, perhaps did not appear to others. Perhaps I was the sole one able to discern him, and he had approached me and I had approached him.

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He stood there fascinated by one of the most magnificent sights he had ever beheld. At that very moment, pure happiness flooded his soul. He had stumbled upon what each of us is looking for; a meaning. However, while he savoured the splendour of his discovery, passers-by looked at him as he admired a tarnished sculpture, void of meaning and spoilt by the passage of time. In their eyes he was a madman, shedding tears in front of a work devoid of any value, any beauty. “Mad”, they may

have called him. Yet he looked like a man who had captured the very essence of beauty, the very essence of life. An artist. Indeed, in his tears and in his wonder, he embodied the essence of art. He was able to perceive beauty where others only saw banality. He testified to the depth of human emotion, to the capacity for transcendence in the face of the ordinary. He understood, understood deeper than anyone else. And while the world rushed before him, oblivious to his revelation, he stood firm in his understanding, a solitary figure embracing the profound truth that beauty lies not only in the eye of the beholder, but in the heart that dares to feel.

He possessed the singular talent to perceive and feel realities beyond the grasp of others, as if an exclusive dimension unfurled solely for him. Yet, amidst whispers of insanity from those unable to fathom his depth, who truly held the measure of madness? Was it he who glimpsed what lay beyond, or they who failed to appreciate the profound tapestry of existence? Thus, the lines blurred between sanity and folly, leaving the question unanswered: who truly embodies madness?