Lunacy

Am I crazy?

Probably.

Mad for hunting happiness like a ghost in a hall of mirrors.

Lunatic, fixated on the moon—this divine itch I can’t scratch.

Crazy enough to enter the labyrinth knowing every turn tightens the noose,

knowing the path back is steeper, darker, more broken.

Yet this place — my fractured kingdom —

is brutal, raw, and utterly beautiful.

So damn beautiful it makes logic seem like exile.

I built this asylum and it hums with a strange stillness,

a playground of beasts, shadows, and myth,

and somehow I belong, like a relic resurfaced from another lifetime.

I want this rabbit hole to be the real escape.

That the Mad Hatter and White Rabbit aren’t just fantasies,

that waking up isn’t the cruelest plot twist.

Sometimes I think sleep is the real world—

where conversations unravel freely from physics to philosophy,

where masks drop, where I’m stripped of pretense.

This place alone feels like home.

The labyrinth is a puzzle—harsh, complex, relentless—

I stumble, fall, rise, flee sanity’s dull embrace.

Seeking bliss paints me as mad—

the world labels such pursuits tragic or deluded.

Why not give up?

Why not step back into order, simplicity, the expected?

Why not?

But a tiny itch gnaws in some forgotten corner,

an itch without a clear target,

persistent, unnerving—

I can’t deny it.

Can’t shake the tension.

Here, in this chaos, I am real.

I move left, right, untethered—

in a place where reason forgets to claim me.

In this irrational world, right and wrong are commodities,

buried deep in shadowed recesses of the soul—

a glance you can’t afford to miss, yet maybe should.

Maybe we would, maybe we wouldn’t.

Maybe it’s a question with no answer.

But right now—don’t interrupt me.

I’m chasing the sharpest dreams.