If I weren't a madman, I would glide through life like water between polished stones. Serene. Happy. The stars of my universe shine with perfect light, aligned in constellations of fortune.

Rarely does destiny weave for a mortal soul a cloak as warm as the one that envelops me. Happiness dwells in my own heart, but I shoo it away like a restless bird.

I am part of this family garden where smiles bloom effortlessly. Father and mother, two ancient trees providing shade and fruit. They don't judge, they don't disturb. Their love is a serene lake where I see my complete reflection.

Mother's cooking, a ritual of aromas that awaken dormant memories. Father's love, silent and deep like a root. Siblings, accomplices in games that build invisible fortresses. Sundays spill slowly between movies that let us live other lives.

Wine unties the knots of time and we return to childhood, a shared territory where we are all eternal.

This family, an archipelago of tenderness in the indifferent ocean of the world. Each moment enameled with honest work and genuine joy. Never does the storm of bad temper darken our common sky.

And yet, my spirit rebels against such bliss. As if serenity were a prison and not a refuge. As if perfect happiness were a mirage hiding some elusive truth.

If I weren't a madman, I would open my arms to this life that so many yearn for. But I am who I am, an inhabitant of a paradise I cannot recognize as my own.