Walking away from Mirages

God… I so much wanted to have a post with the title Mirages… since the inception. Only I knew nothing of the message I was trying to convey with the name. Or more like I did not have a message to convey. But that’s past… anyway…

So someone recently told me, not really to me, not in the context, not related even… but told he rightly… When you see a mirage, pause, turn around and walk away.

But I don’t do that. Do I? We don’t do that… we take pleasure in running for a mirage, not finding nothing, getting to see more mirages, running more, dying more, wishing more, writing more, crying more. Ah we! For if there are no mirages there are no stories. Stories are about mirages. Oh they are the best mirages in the world, aren’t they?

Stories are your ‘self’ that doesn’t get to live, the mirage that your inexistent self doesn’t get to find. Stories are mirages that never be, yet you see them, invariably, consistently, faithfully. I love fiction. Fiction that never comes true. Everyone loves that. Don’t you. It’s all in its never coming true that makes it so special. I use to love writing stories as a kid. Though most of them made no sense. They lied somewhere under the beds, tight, waiting to make sense someday.  Only they knew very well all along, they never would make sense. Those are the best kinds. Utopian. So unrealistic that you can’t get drifted from real. You never lose the sense of their being unreal. You never leave the sense of their being a mirage and not even a tiny drop of water.

Oh it’s all sun. Shining sun. and Mirages. And no drops of any waters. Here… in a bunch of old stories in my hand. From under the cushions. It’s all fiction in here, strange unrealistic stories of strange unrealistic people… Karan… Antara… Kabir… Bella… Jon… they don’t exist. They never did. They never would. Other than in here. I Can’t let them go, a part of my heart says. But you let them go, for writings might be, stories might be, but life is not about mirages. In life when you see a mirage, you pause, you turn around and you walk away… silently. For that’s all you could do.

Or no melancholy…

I walk lost… kicking no dust,

I avoid it unknowingly and careful

They deserve to not get kicked… as if

 

I walk on the footpath…  alone

Holding care, holding knowing-ness

Holding breath sometimes… unknowingly

 

Sometimes I hold tears… in eyes

Not to hide sadness, but waiting on smile

To stretch, to push eyes close, to scatter a few drops

 

In the dead of night… I wake up

I fix water tapping meaninglessly,

I fix a dirty little doormat by the door… carefully

 

I see the peach moist walls

They are not so disgusting after all,

The wooden swing in my balcony, I stand by it, sometimes

 

Hold a feeling of being me

Forgotten… long lost me, just seen

In a huge bucket of lost and founds… as if

 

The city growing on me…

I’ve learnt to laugh the thought off

It doesn’t grow, I’ve known this city for a while now

 

With things out of place

I am at peace, easy, unconcerned

The moist rejection, the anguish feels gone blur

 

Holding a thin smile in eyes

I walk alone, away from the cosmos

Connected yet… to me… more than ever before.

Melancholy

I walk, kick the empty can,

Crumpled and broken

Lying harmless on the footpath

 

I kick in the muddy road

Lazy lofty heavy lying dumb

Leaves a little stain on my boot

 

Kick the small dirty foot mat

In front of my door

Kick every time, without a look

 

Peach moist walls of my room

Continuous showers

The wooden swing in balcony

 

I kick the mess of wires

Under my office desk

I kick hard the connections

 

I think of you sometimes

Times when I felt for once

The city was growing on me

 

I kick away things as they stand

Those once made sense

And then ceased to, forever

 

I stand at door coming back

I think of you if at all

On the other side of the door

 

The keys slip through my fingers

I ring the doorbell

For no one to hear

 

Bend down to pick up the keys

I kick away the keys

Waiting to be picked up

 

I enter the empty house

With moist smell of rejection

Kicking me hard on forehead.