You’re called ‘mad’, or ‘crazy’ in my society

To be politically correct, you’re psychotic

You’ve lost touch with reality

And we, the saner ones,

we try to diagnose the extent of your problem.

But as I look at you,

as I see the glint in your eyes,

as I admire that pointless wide smile,

as I take in the whole of your being,

I wonder

whether you are really ill?

whether I know something that can ‘bring you back’?

whether you actually want to be ‘back’ or not?

I wonder how different is your reality?

I want to know whether you call people crazy in your world too?

Are there demons that haunt you?

Are there moments of ecstasy that give you a high?

Maybe our worlds are not that different

I too have demons that haunt me,

ghosts of the past that I carry along,

I just don’t react to them out there

while you do

I too have moments of inexplicable joy that I suppress to an acceptable level

Maybe you’re just too happy to notice.

We just choose to react to different realities

Maybe you’re too scared to enter mine

and maybe I’m too apprehensive to experience your’s

Why then do I have the right to decide what’s wrong with you?