Oxymoronic Obsession

We crown contradictions as kings of normalcy:
“harmless cruelty,” “profitable loss,”
“organized chaos” stacked like neat piles of rubble.
We scroll past outrage with disciplined indifference,
like gardeners watering plastic plants.
We demand transparency in opaque rooms,
polish the word honest until it reflects only itself.
In this epidemic, language becomes a Möbius strip—
every declaration folds into its opposite
without ever admitting the turn.

And there, glowing blue in the midnight palm,
is the final specimen under glass:
The Loud Introvert—
a sealed room with open windows,
a whisper broadcast through megaphones,
a diary nailed to the town square—
someone who demands extreme privacy and isolation,
yet constantly posts intimate personal details
on public social media accounts.