They called him mad. But madness, he knew, was just a word used to cage those who refused to kneel. They wanted him to live as they did bound by rules, obedient to invisible chains. But he longed for something they could not understand: freedom, raw and untamed. So they locked him away, whispering insanity like a verdict, like a curse.
Years passed in the hollow silence of white walls and watchful eyes. Yet, in the end, they all bore witness. The man they called a lunatic was no fool. He was the only one who had ever been sane.
The world had tried to break him, to force him into its mold. But some souls cannot be folded into small, safe shapes. Some are born wildfire. And fire does not apologize for burning.
This is his confession. Not of guilt, but of defiance. The asylum’s last whisper before it, too, crumbled to dust: He was right all along.
