MAYA?

"Who is Maya?"

There was once a girl named Maya.

Or perhaps… there wasn’t.

She woke one morning beneath a sky of no colour,

between a yesterday she couldn’t touch

and a tomorrow that never quite arrived.

Someone whispered:

“You are not what you think you are.”

She blinked.

Light bent differently that day.

The shadows no longer followed her.

They walked ahead.

She asked the mountain:

"Am I real?"

The mountain said nothing,

but shifted slightly in its silence.

She called that answer.

Maya walked — but not forward.

She walked through.

Through a forest that pulsed in seven tones,

through rivers that carried no water,

only reflections of places she hadn’t been.

She met a woman once —

or was it her own reflection in a bowl?

The woman said:

“You are what you believe you are…

until you stop believing.”

So Maya stopped.

Time trembled.

A crack opened.

Colours spilled in —

not from the sky,

but from her chest.

Red. Blue. Gold. Each colour carried a memory

she had never lived. She tried to name them,

but the names slipped sideways.

She tried to speak,

but her mouth filled with soundless mantras:

"Maya is Māyā."

"Illusion is the teacher."

"Truth wears no name, and no form."

She laughed —

because now she was the question.

Not the seeker.

Not the answer.

Just the question.

And in that moment,

she saw herself dissolve into a sky

she had painted from nothing.

Did Maya exist?

Ask the colour that disappears when you look too long.

Ask the silence between two thoughts.

Ask your own name in a dream.

Maya walks still.

Not to arrive —

but to remind you that nothing was ever missing.

Not the path.

Not the self.

Not the illusion.

Only the one

who dared to ask.