Mirage.

my hair smells like smoke.

And my hair would smell unmistakably of cigarettes, even when I am poised above the cities which twinkle like stars beneath the artificial frame of my humongous aircraft. I look down upon and wonder for a second, if this was how the universe looked like. If the strewn light across the Ganga is actually the Milky Way. I am left to wonder if we see the sky or our supposed fates burning out in a rate we can never fully experience.

It sounds absurd, but my 4 am flight didn't aim to make any sense. Looking at the breaking golden sky and pretending that the blue isn't the darkest where you are most afraid of it to be. You look sideways and pretend that it's not the face you had remembered too well, that your fingers still had the stench of his stubble. But, you cannot distinguish the two faces anymore, you see that the face is made up of the two and one face has melted into another. You cannot recognize this person. You cannot remember this face, you don't remember your own.

And, so you believe that the stars can be extinguished by the soles of your worn out shoe, without getting charred themselves. You pretend that you are walking on your destiny, and mapping how it has been chasing you like a child chases her dandelions.

But, the sky remains blue, it's darkest shades at the places you were most afraid of it to be. The sky remains blue, but all I see is the darkness.