Once Upon A Time, All The Time

Once upon a time,
there was a world that had ended.
Only masks in a desert
Where creatures pretended.

Some wore the Happy mask.
Others wore Sorrow.
To look “Fine and Dandy”—
For applause they must borrow.

They wore the masks so long
they forgot their own faces.
A sea of performance
in authentic places.

And in that time, came the world.
It had many names.
Their language was different.
But the world was the same.

They called it The Dunya,
where the soul just forgets.

In some lands, Samsarahhh—
The sigh that won’t end.

Signs said Mall of Maya,
where nothing real was on sale.

It sounds like the Lie—
The loop of the tale.

They all agreed to align.
To call it one name.
It is The Way Things Are.
That’s their Name for the Game.

This was their home.
The one they created.
A place to babble-on.
To be forever sedated.

Full of opinions,
and anger,
and inspirational quotes.
A place that gave promise—
and never filled holes.

The people of Babble-On were so tired.
They could never stop talking.
The fear was the silence.
Because silence is walking.

One day, the sky burst.
Not with thunder or fire.
Just with rain that brought conflict
and reordered desires.

Everything paused.
The script had been leaked.
But the people just scrolled
and talked for a week.

Babbling and talking and screeching and crying.
This was the cure for their feeling of dying.

And then came The Mark—
The scene to be seen.
A mark of “No worries!”
When inside, they screamed.

It didn’t hurt.
Not at first.
And it brought some relief.
Until the ease turned to pain
And their mouths became weak.

Then a stranger appeared.
Not with a sword.
Nor with wings.
Just with eyes like a mirror—
that had seen many things.

They didn’t sell any story.
Nor correct any Lies.
They watched it all happen—
while free from disguise.

The stranger didn’t speak.
He didn’t pick up a mask.
And that terrified people—
So they finally asked.

“Why look at me?”
asked one of the townsfolk.

“I’m not,” said the stranger.
“I admire your artwork.”

People got angry.
They called the man names.
Said they were judgmental,
and dangerous,
and to just go away.

But they couldn’t stop looking.
Because deep down, they knew.
They remembered the feeling.
The freedom of youth.
But youth was a Lie—
And they said it was Truth.

But memory is painful.
So they went back to pretending.
Some stories are told
with no happy endings.

And the stranger didn’t fight.
Didn’t wallow or hide.
They packed up their things
and continued their stride.

They didn’t seek glory.
They just left a note:

“This is your story.
And I read what you wrote.”

The stranger went back to the silence—
the fear of The Hear.
The babbling was loud.
And nothing was clear.

The people never spoke of the stranger again.
Not a peep.
Not a glance.
Not a whisper in wind.

But sometimes, at night,
when no one was watching,
they'd look in the mirror—
and remember
the longing.