Illusory gaeity.

                          Illusory gaiety..  
               
                I stood there. The echo of my body hitting the reflections on the dusty mirror. I watched myself for a while. The image's profile was happy. Really happy and contented. I saw my well brought up body without any gashes. My Caucasian skin glowing, seeking some unfortunates. I was known for it. I glanced at the speaker. Gawked I was, at the ability of the girl to hide everything inside that hue less coarse.
             The brows of my profile often carrying itself up and down as I try all sorts of absurdity. The girl, the same girl, was contented at the striking of the thought, that she was actually happy.. The girl on the other side of the reflector, was beaming as if she had won everyone' hearts, after all, which was of no use. She was twinkling, with her robe which suited her perfectly. Her short hair, and the whole profile, which could win amazing complements.
I was there, looking at her glowing like, she had swept the board. Her face lighted like a kerosene lamp inside the dark and wild woods.
I said, smiling, to match her,
“This is not going to last!” as I walked out, from the looking glass, my face earnest. My profile, earnest, not to be a cat's paw, again.
           

Fragile Wings

                          Fragile Wings.                       

          I saw her. She was sitting on those most dirty staircases, her equally beautifully decorated "Lehenga" getting spoiled. Her prepossessing dyed hair was hiding all of her face. She was looking down, concealing her 'always smiling' profile. But still, I realized, it was her. She didn't know I was there, secretly admiring her beauty. She was alluring, then too. 

          The same girl who used to run beaming with joy, was there, bawling her eyes out. I was so caught up with her allurement, I did not care about all those droplets of tears hitting the floor. I had never felt so different about her. Maybe it was because of the overload of beauty. I started losing vision on all those admirable amenities. Her soul, inevitably, fighting all the lust, she had always been happy. Her flawlessly shaped hands, always clad with rings and bangles were placed on her mouth making her look like a mummer trying to cry. She looked soulless. Soulless like a corpse inside a coffin. I walked up to her, like an on-looker seeing her for the first time. 

         I moved towards her. I wasn't able to. I felt something thrusting in. The stretchable distance seemed as if we were millions of miles apart. Our eyes meeting each other's, I straightened my hand to her, just to get hit by nothing else but an invisible glass. I tried breaking it. Every now and then, I glanced at her. She looked at me too, her eyes filled with all kinds of emotions. Rage, empathy, love, betrayal. And everything. But she never smiled. She never spoke. She kept quiet. The disguised angel never took her eyes off me. She gazed at me, as I was trying to break the obstacle. I looked at her, my eyes tearing up, as I was carrying my hands over the unseeable glass, as if I was playing with air. She was watching me, patiently, as her emotionless eyes flooded with tears. As beads of tears kept falling from her angelic eyes, I kept trying harder and harder. It became tougher and tougher.
          At last I had put a crack on it. I could feel mucho happiness running through me, rapidly, hunting for it's own space. It was simply, seventh heaven. I probed for her, just to not find her. The soul had gone up in the air, uncontrollably being controlled, the girl tore up into pieces, just because of those people who stabbed her with words.

          I never sighted her, then. She wasn't there. Like an angel, she had come. Like an angel, she had gone. Gone. Those marks of her presence were still present, on those staircases. Not only on them. But, on me too.
Then, I realized,
It was me..
Just me,
"A play.."
                                                                                    

Squander Squad.

                         Squander Squad.

          With my mom, over here, right beside me, earning the title "best counsellor" through that cuboidal shaped box (phone) whose main job is to "put us down" in our lives, I realized,

          "Aren’t we all getting used up because of things which are actually not to be bothered about?"

Legit.

          My mom, herself has zillions of problems to manage. In spite, she sits there spending most of her time telling people to live their life to the fullest.

So, there comes the actual query,

"Are we, intellectual yet stupid humans, living our life as we want it to be lived?"

Or,

"Are we, even living our life or precisely draining away time just because we have been given a lot of it?"

The answer differs from person to person.

Maybe, even I don't live my life.

My Instagram stories are always filled with grievances as others' lives are.

Thank god! Only my Instagram stories are.

Honestly speaking,

Yes.

Even I don't live my life,

Even I am just fooling around in this spherically shaped room named "Earth."

Not solely, but with Seven Billion (7,000,000,000) people.

But the difference is, I am totally aware that my life's battery is coming down.

I perceived a lot of things, now, because of my mom's advice to that pitiful person on the other side who's eyes might actually be dwelling with tears now.

Only when I sit and hear all of this mess,

I remember the time,

          When, I saw an old lady on the road, covering her bleeding leg with a plastic sheet, wearing a plastic cover as her protection, trying to walk as fast as possible through the road as the droplets of rain from heaven was falling on her old wrinkly face, with marks all over her body, with those plastic sheets often trying to fall apart.                 She was still looking assertive. She couldn't walk, but she tried all her level best, with her swollen legs. She reached the other side of the road, to a vegetable shop. I was totally occupied watching her every single step, as she finished her task, a very small task which has to be repeated over and over again, in a single day. I don't know, or maybe I don't want to know, if she was happy when she finished moving from one side of the road to the other, but her eyes told that she was not happy. Her small little bead of tear from her left eye, told, that she was not happy. 

           Her toil did not come to an end over there, she had to fight the place to even stand over there, with her hunched body, people over there battling for space. With, rain getting heavier and heavier, she stood there, as patient and bold one could ever be in that situation. With water pouring down from the plastic sheet above the vegetable shop because of the accumulation of the rain on it, she tried moving in that cramped up place, and failed, again and again. But, she never stopped trying, 'Never.' 

           She kept trying, kept failing, and the last time, heaven blessed her, by stopping the rain and the crowd beginning to move apart. She would have felt relieved, probably. And in another, two minutes, she silently trotted from there continuing her rash journey.

It is really easy for me, to describe things, to describe her courage.

But for her....?

          Our problems are just crap in front of those people whose whole life is on stake.

Only when we try conceiving this, we mature.

          "We" might be the only kind of people who turn the simplest of the simplest things into the most perplexing ones ever.
  

                                                              ***