Whose Life Did You Live?

I am a human.
You are a human.
They are a human.

But we forget.

You are walking to the grave with a mask.
Not your mask —
one handed to you at birth.
Fitted by family.
Fastened by school.
Polished by culture.
Praised by strangers.

You wore it so long,
you forgot your face.

And when Death finally comes —
unimpressed by titles, trophies, or filters —
you will beg for time.

Not more time to live —
but time to be.

To tear off the mask.
To speak in your own voice.
To disappoint all the wrong people.
To remember what joy felt like
before it had to look good online.

You were told who to be
before you learned who you were.
And now, at the end,
the tragedy isn’t death —
it’s never having lived.

You thought life was serious,
so you brought your real face.
But it was just a costume party,
and you showed up naked.

And no one noticed.

Now the theatre is over.
The applause is silence.
And the only question that matters echoes back: