A smile I forgot

I met a madman today. He wasn’t just smiling at me—he was laughing. A strange, wild laugh that I’ve only heard a few times before in my life. And it frightened me. Not because it was threatening, but because it was real. Unfiltered. Full of joy, raw and reckless and alive. The kind of laugh that doesn’t care who’s listening, or why. And in that moment, I envied him. I envied the madness that freed him from the weight we all carry—the careful words, the practiced expressions, the fear of being seen. I can’t laugh the way he does. My laughter is measured, muted, shaped by the expectations of the world. His was untouched. Then he said something. Nonsense, or so it sounded—gibberish strung together like the mutterings of a dream. I didn’t understand a word. But God, I wish I could. Because whatever he said, it felt like it meant something. Something only the free could understand. Something that, if I had heard it right, might’ve made me smile—not the polite kind, but the one that’s rare. The one that shines from somewhere deep and long-forgotten. The one with joy. And as he walked away, still laughing, I wondered—who’s really mad here