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 safe space to babble—
Under heavy sedation.

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

Babble-On was so tired.
They could never stop talking.
They all feared the silence.
The silence of 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.
It was hard to ignore.
Their moods became bleak.

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.

Pain?
Not at first.
It delivered relief.
Until the ease turned to pain
And their mouths became weak.

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

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

The stranger was quiet.
His face wore no 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 he was judgmental
and dangerous
and to just go away.

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

The feeling grew old,
so they went back to pretending.
Some stories are told
with no happy endings.

The stranger put up no fight.
Refused to wallow or hide.
He packed up his things
and continued his stride.

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

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

The stranger went back to the silence—
their fear of The Hear.
The babbling grew louder.
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.