Once Open a Time

Once open a time,

not once upon a time, but open—

like a window that forgot how to close,

like a book that learned to inhale,

there was a moment standing still

with its hands in its pockets,

whistling softly to the future

while the past leaned against its shoulder.

Time did not knock.

It never does.

It arrived already open,

hinges rusted by hope and fear,

swinging wide enough

for dreams to wander in barefoot

and for regrets to leave quietly

without waking the house.

Once open a time,

the sky was not yet divided

into minutes and notifications.

Clouds drifted without deadlines,

and the sun rose not to alarms

but to curiosity.

Morning asked the world,

“What shall we become today?”

and the world answered,

“Let’s try everything once.”

In that open time,

words were heavier,

but kinder.

A promise was not a sentence

but a shelter.

People spoke slowly,

not because they lacked knowledge,

but because they respected silence—

that sacred pause where truth

decides whether it is ready

to be born.

Once open a time,

children carried galaxies in their pockets—

marbles that knew the laws of gravity,

sticks that remembered being swords,

stones that waited patiently

to become stories.

They did not ask what something was worth;

they asked what it could become.

Even the shadows were honest then.

They followed you faithfully,

never pretending to be light,

never leaving unless the sun itself

chose to go.

Darkness was not an enemy,

only a teacher with a softer voice,

explaining that stars need contrast

to matter.

Once open a time,

love did not arrive with instructions.

It stumbled, laughed at itself,

broke things accidentally,

and stayed anyway.

Hearts were not locked with passwords

but tied loosely with trust,

easy to untie,

easy to retie,

stronger for knowing both loss and return.

History had not yet learned

how to shout.

It whispered lessons through rivers,

through rings in trees,

through wrinkles on patient faces.

Wisdom was passed hand to hand,

not broadcast,

and knowledge knew it was powerful

only when it served compassion.

Once open a time,

failure was not a verdict.

It was a conversation.

“You tried,” it said gently,

“now try differently.”

No one archived mistakes

to use them as weapons later.

Errors were compost—

broken things feeding future growth.

Time itself behaved differently then.

It bent when someone laughed too hard,

slowed when a goodbye needed more space,

and paused completely

when a story reached its perfect sentence.

Clocks existed, yes,

but they were suggestions,

not rulers.

Once open a time,

the future did not frighten us.

It stood far away, waving,

holding a lantern instead of a threat.

People believed tomorrow

was a collaboration,

not a competition,

and progress meant moving forward

without leaving souls behind.

But openness, like all gifts,

was fragile.

Little by little,

doors were closed for safety,

windows shut for speed,

and time learned to behave—

to march, to measure, to demand.

Stories became products.

Moments became content.

Silence became suspicious.

Yet even now—

listen closely—

once open a time

still exists.

It hides in libraries

that smell like patience.

It sleeps in lullabies

older than fear.

It waits in the pause

before someone forgives

when they have every reason not to.

You open it

when you choose wonder

over certainty,

kindness over being right,

listening over winning.

You open it

when you tell a story

not to impress,

but to connect.

Once open a time

is not behind us.

It is beside us,

quietly holding the door,

asking only one thing:

“Are you ready to step through

without armor,

without hurry,

without forgetting

who you were

before the world taught you

to close?”

And if you answer yes—

even once—

time opens again,

wide enough for magic,

wide enough for truth,

wide enough for you.