Myth Machina, Part the 3rd

I like labyrinths. My city is like a labyrinth. To a visitor, it may appear as a unnecessarily elaborate barrier against the desert. A ceramic-shingled placeholder in the sand for something, someday.

Most of my world is in this city. I grew up here, I live here. In my smallest travels along my labyrinth I pass by the places I have been but can never get back to. Then further along, further along, and I begin to pass reminders of the reminders. Hallucinations of an oasis, shimmering in the heat, promising me every hopeful ghost of my stillborn loves. Long without water, dried to husks and tumbling along in dusty breezes.

In a labyrinth, there is only one path. In a labyrinth, the only direction is forward. In a labyrinth, the quest is not for the end, but for the center.

For all nights to come, dreams of trekking through sands, almost silent but for the swish swish of my steps and the occasional bits of glass tinkling underfoot like little bells.