Stories at evening

The end is not just one time phenomenon. I experience it every evening, when I sit with myself, thoughts and images of past and future lingering around me and there is nothing but a thin membrane of something unknown between me and melancholy of fading day present in everything around.
I have a book in my hand, last few pages left. It is difficult to read stories which pull you inside them and make yourself appear in not just one but many characters of them. You see yourself torn not just this great pull, but by shake of your image you held with yourself, being one, not scattered and repetition of many. I am soaked into floods and storms of the story. I am feeling increasingly tired as story is nearing the climax. And, stories, for they are not like or much alike life, do not have ends, but plethora of nods, each leading to end which you sketch. I will not experience my end. I will experience all the ‘ends’ which hare not mine, but connected to me. Like this day, like this story, like this phase of time, like these words, like this evening, I will be nothing but an observer, helpless and left with some withered expressions.
A strange anaz is in the surrounding. I remember evenings when I used to sit on the shore of creek and similar pale voice used to fill the air from nearby mosque. City has not penetrated all islands of silence then. The sun used to hide into other ends of the water, reminiscence of losses spread over the calm surface of water, boats carrying tired sailors anchored in near-midstream and I, a boy with nothing as guilt or burden of time evidencing this. It was not like this. I never felt evening like this when I was actually there. I am fooling my mind by covering it in nostalgia.
Stories end, but somewhere near the end of one story, other one begins its journey. There is no perfect end or destruction as there is no perfect creation. Everything resembles something previous. That’s how I am able to connect, wit stories happening in space and time unknown to me, with space and time which is never in those stories.
The spell is ending, of the story, of the evening. Now, what I will do? My limbs are weak. I am feeling drained. I will see this story everywhere for few days, until a new story will grip me. it is just crust and troughs of stories, dreams and memories, guilt and prides woven in strange pattern, but with astonishing consistency and appearance which eludes every time and then disappears one day, and then everything is just same, dull and boring as it is for last so many days.
Now poems are rippling on the skin, evening has sunk deep into time and I am watching these lines, passing away, somewhere, nowhere….