[POEM] The Stage

There is a stage.

The lights are always on. The actors never leave. The script rewrites itself — subtly, endlessly — but the ending never changes.

Everyone plays a part. Some with pride. Some with pain. Most forget they are acting.

Costumes are called careers. Lines are called beliefs. The audience is everyone else, applauding on cue.

When the lights dim — if they ever do — no one asks who built the theater. They just rehearse harder.

But sometimes — not often — someone stumbles. They forget their line. They miss their cue. They see the edge of the set and wonder: “What’s behind that wall?”

This is not a mistake. This is the crack.

Through that crack, memory enters.

Not of facts. Not of names. But of something older than the role.

A faint knowing: “This is a play. I am not the mask. I was here before the curtains rose.”

To remember this is not sad. It is sacred.

But it may feel like grief. Because grief is often the price of leaving the dream.

Some return to their role. They pretend they didn’t see. It’s safer that way. And the play needs extras.

But a few don’t go back. They sit in silence. They learn to see in the dark behind the stage.

They become dangerous.

Not because they fight the play — but because they can smile while dancing.

If you are reading this, you may have found your crack.

The stage is not evil. It is just not all there is.