There’s no beauty and no truth in mirages. They shimmer so enticingly, false promises shining like so many fallen stars, calling you near, inspiring you to find the strength to go toward, throwing out all caution and fatigue. You make the trek, stepping cautiously and gently, holding your breath, stripping yourself naked, anything not to disturb the fragile, ethereal being before you. But one false step and the image unravels.
You stop, try to grasp at something, fighting to preserve the dissipating shape before you, picking up the pieces of old words and connections, trying to piece them together — see, look, this was us just a little while ago, there was something here, something important. But no, there wasn’t.
The winds have risen and blown apart the smoke houses that never were, and now you’ve fallen to the ground, fingers picking at quicksand, sinking slowly and without a bit of fight left in you, watching from a distance as the mirage swirls and dances just far enough on the horizon now, all brightness and colors and music, snake-charming another star-struck traveller, the desert quiet and eternal around you, as if to say: the oldest story in the world.