In an Illusion.

The story of life isn't life in the end, its a story. In describing a story what points do you put in as relevant and elucidate ?Out of the innumerable incidents , born out of desperate moments , desperate to make them momentous, a writer gleans the few which would serve the purpose of a story, one's which would generate interest and intrigue. They will either portray a simplicity, a beauty, an intricacy or something worth contributing to the story.


Yet, I find it difficult to undermine the relevance of the moments, untold and unsaid, in life that do no contribute to the story.For a writer, what matters is a portrayal of the few moments, from which he creates a mesh of plot , wherein he/she could fit characters and highlight their conflicts and dilemmas.But , is that life? A story is a story, something that begs for a coherent sequence of ideas. Does , it apply equally to life?
Yet, begin I must. I must write, even though it is myopic and imperfect. Illusion. The word inspires me. It goads me to picture the world on this canvas. What do I get? A portrait , seemingly, not a definitive truth, rather an elusive one. Elusive in its essence, and thus illusive in human terms. To the human eyes, it never appears constant. It changes. For every moment, for every incidents. With those human eyes, its changing natures is the only constant view. What is illusion for me? This act of writing seems vulnerable to it, and so does your act of reading. You and I, are both trapped by these illusory words, which would morph into something else the next moment, leaving us awed. Yet , we accept it, debunk it and then pave way for the next one.

We are not a different being from our illusion. Our illusion and us are same. But illusions change, as do the truths, as the nomads, never settling for one. But wait, isn't this change itself part of an illusion. An illusion of time, which attaches to all objects a permanent nature of change. We can never realize it from our framework of time. Destroy your framework of time and you see that there is no change. There cannot be one.

Yet, we firmly hold on to our illusions and at least I do to mine. I don't exist beyond it, and its nature itself suggests the meaning of existence to me.In essence, I am born out of it. How do I know? Because it changes. Oops! What did I say? "change", this illusion of time is so deeply entrenched in me. You see, we all lie in it, waft in it, move out of it, and still always be in it. Illusion. And its again I recall, those initial words that I heard somewhere, the story of life , in the end , is a story, not life.