365 Dreams: Diary from the Edge of Madness
 Week3: Morphing playgrounds and suffocating fear

Week three, and the madness persists. Made a grotesque mistake in the screen print—glaring, obvious, like a drunkard stumbling into oncoming traffic. Maybe it's my fractured mind, a swarm of deranged thoughts buzzing like hornets in a coke can. Or maybe I’ve been programmed to skim the surface, never to plunge into the dark, seething depths. Either way, I botched it. Too late now. Nevermind.

But despite it all, there are moments—brief, shimmering—where the whole thing starts to feel fun again. Making decisions for myself. Wrestling back control. Creativity slithers in through the cracks like an uninvited but welcome guest. And against all logic, I find myself believing in the „Vanished Gallery“.

It’s morphing into the lawless playground I’ve always craved. A mad universe for my ideas, my expression, my holy disorder. I thank God for cheap cheeseburgers, free will, and the great lie that everyone is special. And I thank him for the internet—our glorious, festering temple of porn, scams, and uninhibited self-expression. We don’t seem to use it for much else. Oh yes, and for the corporate social media accounts, peddling the illusion of authentic connection with faceless, soulless husks disguised as legal entities.

For anyone foolish enough to think my distaste for corporations and hierarchies would mellow with time—wrong. Never. This system is a diseased zoo, run by power-drunk opportunists shoving their tongues up each other’s backsides. A grotesque cycle of mutual ass-kissing.

But back to me: the amorphous dread from last week is shifting. The suffocating panic has dissolved into something else—doubt. From "everything is too much" panic to "I’ll never make it as cool as it is in my head" doubt.

And with it, an old instinct resurfaces—the outright rejection of authority. The kind that preys on self-doubt and forces you to kneel before it. But there, in the distance, a crack appears. A sliver of light leaking through the abyss.

What if this absurd, reckless idea actually works? What if I can bend reality, twist the grotesque into something magnificent? Can I wrench something good—something free—from this festering, putrid mass of failure? A business? A movement? One that fuses the fiery dreams of my youth with a future that doesn't make me want to slit my throat? No idea. Maybe. Maybe not. But I have to know. The alternative is a slow death by regret.

Isn’t that what all those grinning, plastic-toothed coaches preach: "You must be willing to fail"? Sure. Peddling pyramid schemes and promising desperate housewives they can get rich by selling hope and snake oil.

I digress. The thought of building something—something that grants me freedom, creativity, a real goddamn life—is too intoxicating to ignore.

So I keep running, chasing that fat, succulent pig as it bolts through the muck, fleeing me and my bloodied butcher knife.

Until next Tuesday. And please, God—don’t let me become normal.