There is a map inside the mind,
a network of whispers and signals,
a tangled forest of synapses sparking,
where light stumbles in specific patterns
and calls it survival.
Somewhere, the body carries pain
like an echo trapped in a jar,
a holler bouncing off its glass walls,
begging to be drowned,
begging to be heard.
Here lies ketamine, a key unlocking—
not everything, but something
a receptor alight in soft blues,
cradling serotonin and hope,
redefining the chemistry of despair.
Doctors trace its path like explorers,
their fingers on the pulse of science.
This is not magic, not sorcery,
but the brain rewired delicately,
rewritten in the language of relief.
Some call it healing, some call it grace—
a breaking of old storms into clear skies,
where even shadows begin to forget
how they held the light hostage.