There once was a man who believed he was Jesus Christ. He simply woke up one day and declared that he was the Messiah, here to save mankind. To his wife’s horror, he preached to cashiers at the shop, gave away his life’s savings to strangers, and declared he could heal people through his touch. It was not long until he was brought into the psych ward.

There, his delusions persisted. Every day, he would rise and hurriedly tell the other patients about his message. He wrote bible verses over the walls, wore his bedsheet as a robe, and would preach sermons in front of the television. His sermons were initially to nobody but himself, but gradually, people began to listen. His enigmatic nature rubbed off on people, it seemed. Those who heard him seemed to be affected by the message, for they would tell others to come and listen, and within a week, his sermons had a routine attendance.

It did not matter that the sermons were incoherent, nor were they even from the Bible. His messages brought followers, and they soon began to quote him and practice his messages of self-sacrifice and worship. They began to eat together and share stories about themselves in details that one would only tell a close friend. One night, a nurse reported that in the common room there were eight patients sitting together, quiet in meditation, with the man in the middle. It was one of the calmest shifts she had ever had.

But gradually, the medications took their effect and the delusions faded. The man, less sure in his identity, began to preach less, and the daily sermons soon became a thing of history. Each day, the man would reject his previous identity more emphatically, to the nods and approval of his psychiatrists. He began to fear those who knew him as Jesus Christ, and spent his days locked in his bedroom.

The day he was discharged, the doctors and nurses were overjoyed. He had made a full recovery and his wife welcomed him with open arms.

But back in the ward, the patients he had preached to still gathered in front of the television each morning. They ate together and tried recreating his teachings, but soon disassembled without any guidance. His writings on the wall remained for many years, the only evidence that there was a man who believed he was Jesus. And so, the ward returned to a previous time, filled with people a shell of their selves, waiting again to feel delight.