Some people
are mirages.
They are completely real
and yet altogether
do not exist.
You see them and you want them
Oh! how you long to taste their cool, refreshing streams
Oh! how you long to bask in their icy, protective shades
Oh! how you long to visit them over
and over
and over
And yet
You cannot.
"Why?"
You think
Where is the stream?
Where is the shade?
Where is my paradise?
Can I not visit it once more and again and again?
No,
You cannot.
For mirages only exist
when you need them to.
Deserts
to be exact.
Where there is nothing
and you are desperate
and thirsty
and hot
and dying.
You needed that stream
so it flowed
and was real.
You longed for that shade
so it grew
and was real.
You were dying
so you made up a person
and called it your paradise.
But the phenomenon here is
Your paradise, your mirage,
the person you invented,
really does exist.
In fact, they helped you invent them.
You see
Mirages are all sparkly and waiting and beautiful
With emptiness underneath
They long to be invented.
"A stream? Here it is, it has always existed."
"Shade? ah yes, this tree has sat here a thousand years
waiting for you."
"Leave you? Never, you can visit me any time you like,
in fact it is you who leaves me."
These people, these Mirage people
exist between two worlds
quite on purpose, it seems.
That way,
they never choose unwisely
Or face reality
Or live their lives.
But somehow,
I don't believe they're aware of any of this
at all.
How sad it must be
to be a Mirage Person
And never, truly exist.