Mirage

desert-africa-bedouin-footprints‘Best Friends Forever’
The term is fiction. So it’ll last forever but the truth is never fiction. Truth is never surreal. It’s hard as glass. It breaks then it makes you bleed. The truth is that the fictional three words will always remain unchanged but the mouths uttering them will keep changing.
The faces will keep flipping but the promising words will always be wrapped with the same superficial forever. The people will come, use and go. The time will do all to make you wither. The change will always be unacceptable for many. The trust will always seem to be strong and lasting but it’s like a mirage in the desert.
Like a traveller in the huge expanse of swallowing sand, tired, thirsty and sweaty. Dying for a drop of water to satiate his choking throat and quench his dried up soul. A sudden sparkling lake brings him back to life, revives his hopes. He runs. Runs to quench his thirst. Runs to medicate his sores. Every step dragging him deeper into glee.
His merry heart letting tears run faster than him. As his burning feet step into the merciful water and he dips his hands to get some water, it vanishes. The glass of dream breaks and then the heart bleeds. He is back in the middle of the same slaughtering desert.
Just exactly same is what the human heart is. You trust, you lose. You believe, they hurt. You play, you win. You dodge, their sin.
Friendship, love, care. Everything is like the mirage. And you are the traveller looking desperately for them. Cause even relations have their own timeline. Everything ever born has its own expiry date. Same goes for me. Same goes for you and same goes for us.

Argument

A nothing grazing my head. The sound of silence absorbing into my ears. Like buckets full of water, I feel frail and heavy.
The trance of black taking over and feeding over my emotions, digesting my ability think or even feel.
I feel like I am letting go. Running off, everything. The fear of loosing set far, not a shadow to be seen. Just emptiness and the nostalgia of the want of feeling nothing is taking over. Engulfing me as a whole, mouthful.
Thoughts getting paralysed and affection getting choked. Body getting numb and eyelids bearishly heavy.
Words draining off my core, leaving the surface and letting go. Like they never grew on the barren platform.
Don’t know if it’s the same, or the ability to deceive my own self. Not about me, not about nothing but the argument.
The argument between the want of being stranded and the feel of being wanted.
Choice being material, or being eternal. The argument now making my numbness go, unwontedly.
Harder I try, farther I loose,
To the material than eternal. The argument never ending about absolutely nothing I can do.