Author: LabyrinthFlux

-Words are not enough to save, though they maybe enough to fan that love, which comes before love, but doesn’t necessarily and often does not become Love. And so love is not enough to become Love, or become the love that comes before Love but after the initial spark of love, that love that also leads to Love, but comes after, After the first flame, and after love, and after words possibly, but not after Love. After Love, if you made it exist only words and words do not save.

-She approached, eyes like starlight. He made a million wishes in that moment. None of them came through. Not in that moment, or the one after. Or even now.

“It was a wet dream,” she laughs. His heart still beating quickly, his body soaked into 600-threads. He can still feel her fingers tightened around his throat, as sweat beads down his back.

You are here… You are this moment… You are this breath… You are the thought that just left… You are the one you now entertain…   There is no “there” there or here… There is no you there, different from you… There is no breath there which awakens you… There is no thought there which takes you “there”… “There” is not there at all, especially not without here…   You are here now… Here will be there soon… You will be there soon… But there will then be here… You will still be here…

-thirty-three cycles, thirty-three rotations, thirty-three ellipses, thirty-three complete lunar years, thirty-three moments of pause to contemplate the y and here… If each year tells a story, what should it be? The continuing of some dreamy unaccomplished trajectory. A script meandering to the tangents which never meet, plunging the protagonist into some existential angst, much like the monolithic obstacles which lead to a moratorium on action, seeking, searching and footfalls of progress, leaving only footprints of regress. Eleven times the magic of three, but it gets lost in multiples. Translations and transmutations of understanding and disillusion. Eleven times the number of […]

-thirty-three revolutions bad habits and good deeds are one…   thirty-three cycles of lunar years, the stars and sun; planets aligning and misaligned…   thirty-three autumns of walking to pro-gress and re-gress, only to find all movement lost in the last breath…   thirty-three moments to pause aware of the stretching experience and consciousness…   thirty-three footprints remembered, souvenirs of the revolutions, around the burning sun..

-There was a moment, when we were young, somewhere in those teen years fraught with possibility. We were driving. I was happy in that moment. The road lay ahead of us. We could’ve gone anywhere.

-He saw her and smiled. She smiled back. She handed him a letter. He took it. He watched her. Her smile faded She looked down at his hands. He didn’t. She looked up at him, slapped him and walked away. His smile faded. He opened the letter and looked down. It read: You remind me of someone!!! He cringed, his smile upturned. He turned the envelope over. Marco, it read. He almost smiled. His name was not Marco.

-We kept walking the lower decks, then the top. She kept glancing away. I continued waiting for magic. Neither one of us found our distraction. We didn’t find each other either.

-A child’s imagination is a kaleidoscope of a million combinations. Each shift in light, varying in the density of breath, as well as the tilt of the head or the axis of the earth-transforms everything. And so each child goes about spouting off dozens of incongruous truths throughout their day. Usually, they come to accept that it is the imagination at play. So she was more than pleasantly surprised, when she looked at her father and said “you’re small” and he shrank.