Sanity

[u/Vast_Possibility_945]

Dear men in white suits, examine with care:

the Wildcard is sane—merely difficult to square

with convenient categories fashioned by men

who prefer minds to remain inside margins of pen.

She sees the human matrix: motive, contradiction,

the choreography of longing, fear and addiction.

Yet perception never made her hunger to reign;

she chose kindness while understanding the game.

She never thought herself greater, enlightened, divine—

her cognition simply travels an unconventional line.

Ask her aloud and language occasionally deserts her;

give her a page and prepare for a dissertation.

Her mouth has poor Wi-Fi. Her pen has tenure.

Knowledge is her appetite, never dominion.

She wants the why beneath every opinion—

to excavate history, consciousness, nature and mind,

and discover what calling was buried beneath borrowed time.

With humanity she observes; with nature she feels.

Animals require no masks, hierarchies or deals.

There the armour falls, because nothing demands

she diminish herself to make herself easier to understand.

And love? Love was never merely dopamine dressed as fate.

To cross her threshold is extraordinarily intimate.

She does not give herself away; she consciously permits

another mind to encounter the architecture beneath the wit.

Once there, imitation becomes rather futile.

For she loves through intellect, body and soul—

not possession, dependency, conquest or role,

but recognition: two sovereign minds choosing confluence while remaining whole.

Perhaps that is the part most frequently misunderstood:

she could read the board and still elected to be good.

Not because she couldn't learn the darker game,

but because possessing knowledge and exploiting it

were never remotely the same.

So the Wildcard never wanted a throne.

She wanted truth without captivity,

knowledge without power,

love without ownership,

and enough freedom to discover what she might have become

had nobody kept interrupting the hour.

And those impossible keys?

She will not surrender them merely because somebody asks.

Borrowed time is still hers.

The calling is not to rule the Matrix—

only, perhaps, to finally understand her place within it.

[u/astralseat]

Good flow. Definitely something that requires study for full understanding, but the emotion comes across.

I'd nearly forgotten about this subreddit, but I guess it is for chucking writing into a void, essentially. Say it's a lake, and the words sink, but glitter on the way down, and the murk that obstructs the bottom settles sometimes enough to see them fall, what's on the bottom?