Anish Easwar
Senior Copywriter
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Questions I Ask The Mirror

Ancient superstition suggests that mirrors reflect the shadow of our soul and that we can truly see who we are, in our reflection. While I am not the most avid believer in the words of our ancients, I have, on more than one occasion, asked myself some difficult questions in the hope that my subconscious would hold the answer. 

This blog represents nothing more that a few opinions and a lot of insecurities relating to the events that occur in my day to day life, that have been extracted from the deepest depths of my journal. I put these thoughts into words not because I seek answers. Neither do I strive to be understood through this medium nor do I search for closure. 

This book is in existence simply because I believe that the truth is an author’s greatest asset while writing a piece of fiction. 

The Atlantic

Who ever stated that distance was but a number couldn’t have been more incorrect. As I lay down on the soft cool sand staring into the horizon waiting for the sun to rise from its slumber, I felt a pit in my stomach. A pit that all the knowledge of the miles between us couldn’t fill. I stared out towards the east, as far as the eye could see and thought that somewhere on the other side of this vastness lay everything that I once held dear. I realized that distance wasn’t a number. It is an emotion, emoted by all 5 senses. It wasn’t a person or place but the sights, smell, sounds, tastes and touch that held the power to define the existence that I left behind on the other side of the ocean. 

At that moment, I ached for the smallest sliver of familiarity. I ached for the sound of a street vendor, breaking the silent dawn. I ached for the smell of roadside food that would fill my nostrils with a thousand flavors. I ached to see a cow halt traffic. One month had passed and I had involuntarily succumbed to the flurry of changes that dominated my new identity. I was suddenly overcome by the urge to litter with the same careless attitude that I detested because I would give anything to feel like I still belonged. To feel like not everything had to change. To feel like some lines remained in a slate being wiped clean. 

It was then, when I let the sand slip through my fingers that I once again came face to face with an old mistress. The ocean beckoned making its way closer with each wave. As if to summon me hither. 

I closed my eyes and realized that after all, I had a constant. That wherever I was, Poseidon had never left my side. It had comforted me, cradled me and once again in times of confusion, it was here to lend its shoulder. I stripped off my shirt and sprinted into the cold Atlantic as if to find part of me within its depths. As the sea met me with open arms, a wave of nostalgia crashed over me. I wasn’t the same man who had fallen in love with water over a decade ago. I was no longer as strong or as fit and I couldn’t swim hundred meters under a minute now to save my life and yet, the fact that those weren’t the changes I was complaining about put things into perspective. I cursed myself for waiting a month to come say hello.

As I rose to the surface, to take a breath like it was the first time that I realized that I could, the first rays of light rose above the clouds to welcome me to the day. I looked up at the same sun that united 2 incomparably unique locations and said, “You may be over ten hours late, but it’s good to lay eyes”. 

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