There once was a child who was born without a face. The skin over where his face should have been, hinted at outlines of features, but it wasn’t until the child acknowledged his need for acceptance, did he force his first face into existence.

His first face was the most awkward he had ever created, but that’s probably due to the fact that it was his first. Some say that his first face was his real face, but he didn’t like to believe it.

As time went on though, the Faceless one began tugging and toying at his facial features to make himself more appealing to those around him. Then one day, the Faceless one realized that he was suddenly in an entirely different city and what was appealing before no longer held its value. He learns from his environment and reshapes his face only to realize he was once again in yet another city. The Faceless one moved from one city to the next, seeing and sharing his life with scholars and simpletons, saints and skeptics, the spiteful and the sympathetic. In each city he could find some amount of temporary tranquility, but as soon as he was close to obtaining complete peace of mind, his bit of bliss was pulled away.

Tired of the inconsistencies of the cities, the Faceless one became hermetic; seeking refuge and sanity in solitude, but to no avail.

Then the Faceless one realized his dilemma. No matter who, what, when and where he went, Time would always be there. Time was always one step ahead of the Faceless one, dragging certainty just beyond grasp. It was Time, not Death that the Faceless one feared most. Time snatched at everything in Faceless’ hands. It was Time that would enshroud everything and mold it against the Faceless one’s wishes. A few times, people, individual and multitudes, changed with a simple and brief flutter in the chest. Some of the worst changes that would pounce unbelievably quick also happened to be excruciatingly dramatic. Because these changes sprang so fast, the Faceless one came to question whether or not what he was experiencing was real or simply just a fleeting nightmare. What complicated things even more is that he was never completely sure of his own emotions because it seemed that his soul burned, froze, hardened or melted, many times depending on his so-called face.

Unsatisfied and incomplete, the Faceless one faced the question that would mold the rest of his life.

“What should I do?”

But what does the man then do? Well, I’ve heard several renditions of the conclusion. In one, the man finally chooses to accept his identity simply as the Faceless one. For the rest of his life he roams from one city to the next, sliding around the features for his face, slipping from one flesh mask to another, shifting from robes to rags and back again. He was content, but never exactly happy.

Another ending says that the Faceless one stopped caring about who he really was and settled down in a certain city. His face stopped changing. He adopted a name and identity. He lived out the rest of his days enjoying the simple satisfactions that sugarcoat ignorance.

Which is the case? Only Time can tell.