The clunky steam train headed past the border left that afternoon.
He clambered down onto the train tracks and walked past the end of the platform; lawns of stubbled grass on either side of the track. He sat, knees up to his chin; where the warm chunks of rock gathered between the parallel metal lines.
The young boy picked up a rock and studied it for a moment, then threw it. He picked another and threw it further than the last.
Between each throw he looked to the distance, towards the mirage—a place beyond the border. The possibilities of this outlined silhouette excited him.
In his mind’s eye he sketched a blueprint, erased the noise, coloured the whites and re-drafted it with perfect detail.
He conceived his city, his dream. And this dream became his truth.
“There’s not much to see there kid. Trust me.”
A tall unwelcome shadow blocked the sun from where the boy sat. It was a fit middle-aged American man in his grey suit and beige hat; right hand in his pocket, left on a fat Cuban cigar.
Blankly the boy considered this man for a moment, his reverie broken. As the boy understood this man he was already gone, only his laugh hung in the air like his thick cigar smoke.
You see when a dream becomes your truth, sometimes reality doesn’t exist. And the only truth the boy knew was now seemingly… untrue.
But there had to be more. Or was the man right?
Are our dreams a mirage? Is there ‘not much too see’ on the other side?
Or are we too concerned with people in grey suits puffing on Cuban cigars?
He stepped off the train; the gravel dusting his shoes. Sure enough it was ‘nothing’ to the man, but it was a blank canvas of ideas to the boy.
He laughed to himself. There was more dreaming to be done, more mirages to demystify.