It’s said the price of genius is insanity, but what use is genius to humanity, when going crazy is the only solution to society's calamities.
I’ve paid the price, and people say I’ve lost mind; and those afraid to say it, think it to themselves in an attempt to inflate their gluttonously vain egos, as they glare down from atop their entitled high horses. I have not lost my mind. No, as a matter of  fact, I’m lost inside it.
My mind is over analytical, yet abstract. I contradict my own contemplations, and combat my compunctions as compensation. Eventually I became engulfed by the oxymoronic paradox of the the inevitable unknown. I know not what my future holds, but I am positive its hands are flush with the fruits of fate. I know I will love in my life, but as for whom or even what, I am clueless. At times I am a suffering fish silently suffocating on the shore, watching the waves taunt me as I gasp for air and pray for mercy. Other times I am a lion perusing my kingdom. I roar to let my presence be known, because I live for the chase and my ears are immune to pitiful pleas. There’s always blood on my hands, but it’s impossible to differentiate my own from my victims.
I’m a tiger in a monastery, a sadist among pacifists. I’m manic and maniac; I’m sleep deprived with bloodshot eyes and arms carved with scars from when I refused to be subdued. My moral compass has no needle; I’m stuck on the path of compassion, apathetic about the absence of direction.
But what do I know? People say I’m crazy.