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. 

Fear of Flying

This is the first year of my adult life that I had resolved not to make any resolutions. With all the changes in my life, I was desperate to grasp, with all my strength, any semblance of continuity I felt I still had. This resolution, or rather the lack of one, began to bear fruit a mere 24 hours into the new year. 

I heard the faint sound of my alarm nudging me as I slept. Without even giving it a second thought, I reached over to the right, exactly 2 inches above eye level in one precise motion to reach out to my phone that lay on my night stand. Instead of finding my phone, my palm hit dry wall. I woke with a start and in place of the window that opened up to the hills, I found my new roommate snoring in his sleep. I looked around at this unfamiliarity and for a brief moment remember having seen this place somewhere. I thought that I may have been dreaming, but it took a few moments for my mind to catch up to speed with what my eyes were seeing. I suppose this strange, unfamiliar environment was to be my new home. Home. I took a moment to think about what that really meant. About where it is that this, ‘Home’ really was. I had always been a nomad, jumping at the first opportunity for a clean slate. But I felt like I was out of my depth here. 

I wished I could tell my parents that I wanted to return to India. But what exactly would I tell them? That I was wrong? That the life of an accountant was all that I could handle? That this place was cruel and I was homesick? None of those statements were true. I realized that I was being a coward. Besides, there was no way I would make that call, simply because I had too much pride. I scoffed and scolded myself for even thinking that a life of mundane mathematics was all that destiny had in store for me. When a teenage attempt at impressing a girl manifested into a career choice will forever escape me. But what I did know, is that it took a lot of strength on my part to crawl out of that pit and my sane mind refused to be dragged back in. 

Yet in that moment, I couldn’t help but question everything. Did I travel thousands of miles to a foreign land, leaving behind everything I know and love just because I was obsessed with the notion that, just for once, I could have my own way. 

I knew that I loved to write but did I love it enough to do it everyday for the rest of my life? I found it hard to answer that question because if things had gotten this far, the question really should have answered itself. That scared me. I feared that my father may have been right all along. I remember what he told me, among other things when I made my intention of studying in Miami Ad School clear. He said, “Dreams are like wings of feathers and wax. Fly too high and you will drown in the sea”. 

I recognized the not so cryptic reference to Greek mythology. What I wouldn’t admit then but just feel insecure enough to admit now was that he may have been right. A part of me did feel like Icarus. I may have flown too close to the sun. 

I remember looking at the docked ships in the harbor the night before. As I gazed at the large majestic vessels traveling to places I have only heard of, I wondered if they ever got homesick. That as they cross oceans to reach faraway lands and bring back stories of adventure and discovery that our hearts get drunk upon, if these travelers, doomed to the perpetuity of motion ever think of those who have bid them farewell. I wondered where a nomad’s home really lay. Was it where they stood, where they were born, where their loved ones lay or simply where their heart resided because to me, at this point those were four different places. 

I thought of home but the picture was a blur because I truly knew not where home lay. I thought of those people that I had waved goodbye to, possibly for the last time and I was appalled by the fact that I did not miss them as much as I fancied the notion that I probably should. 

I thought back to the words of my father and considered the idea that perhaps the whole problem was that for the first time in my life I had found wings. I thought back to a moment nearly a year ago, for no particular reason, when I saw a lonely bird perched on a tree and if I could, I would have asked, why he chose to stay there when he could fly anywhere. Then I paused and asked my self the same thing. 

It was in that instant that most of my questions were answered by one simple idea. It isn’t just those with wings who have a responsibility to fly.

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