#fleeting encounters

[vanpeltfoto]

we lock eyes for a second me, full of questions and it— full of centuries as if every stone and feather had already seen this moment before

(Photo: d.)

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[bigfootbeat]

Bigfoot as a Nature Spirit

Bigfoot can be understood not as a fearsome creature, but as an ancient guardian of the natural world. In this interpretation, it exists as a quiet protector of forests, animals, and sacred places, dwelling far from human activity in deep, untouched wilderness. Rather than asserting dominance, it moves in harmony with the land, embodying the spirit of places that remain wild and undisturbed.

This view places Bigfoot between worlds—neither fully physical nor entirely unseen. It is connected to elemental forces and other nature spirits, appearing only in fleeting moments and leaving behind subtle signs rather than clear proof. Footprints, distant sounds, or brief shadows serve as reminders of its presence, suggesting intention and awareness rather than chance encounters.

Often described as possessing abilities beyond the ordinary, Bigfoot is believed to move invisibly through the forest, communicate through the natural environment, and carry a healing energy tied to the earth itself. These traits emphasize a role that is more spiritual than biological, reinforcing the idea that it represents the living will of the wilderness.

Seen this way, Bigfoot becomes a symbol rather than a mystery to be solved. It reflects humanity’s enduring connection to nature and the need to respect forces older and wiser than ourselves. Its legend endures as a reminder that some aspects of the world are meant to remain wild, sacred, and just beyond complete understanding.

[versegold]

Hinges of Life

The dog isn't on the road when I am out there where he was. The owner is missing, too. Maybe it was a one-time hinge of life, what is possible if I am up to open my mind and thoughts. That there are chances I hide from myself. That there is love I have to accept as it comes. There are many things. I try harder. Even without dogs.

[versegold]

Grounds for Return

I fall for you, you know? In your white uniform shirt, reflecting your dark hair shining as a background to your locks. Your fingernails painted white and your eyes an ocean to live in.

Behind the counter, with practiced care, you grind my coffee the way it can best be used in the machine and take extra care that coffee stays in the bag, way more than usual.

I thank you, as I leave, knowing where you work but I don't know when I will see you again, as I bought this coffee for someone else.

[moments-inmotion]

She Was Gone Long Before She Left Part II: We Let It End Without Ever Saying It

Her: “If we’re both single at twenty-eight, we’ll marry each other.”

Me: “Deal.”

We laughed like it was nothing. Like time would wait. Like twenty-eight was far enough away that we would become everything we wanted first, and then find our way back to each other.

It felt safe to say things like that when nothing had to be decided.

We did not know we were already beginning to lose each other.

There was no moment you could point to. No argument. No clear ending. Just small changes that felt harmless at first. Calls that ended a little sooner. Messages that came a little later. Silences that stayed longer than they should have.

She was still there.

But not in the way she used to be.

Years later, I saw her again at our friend’s wedding.

She was standing alone, holding a glass of wine like it gave her something to do with her hands. She looked the same at first. The same quiet eyes. The same way of tucking her hair behind her ear when she was thinking.

For a moment, I thought nothing had changed.

I was wrong.

When I asked, “Can I have a minute?” she nodded, like she had already decided.

We walked out without saying much. The city moved around us, loud and alive, but it felt far away. As if the world had made space for something we had not finished.

We passed the café where she used to steal sips of my coffee. The bookstore where she once read to me in a voice so soft it felt like the words were meant only for us. Even the streets felt familiar.

Everything was still there.

Except us.

We ended up at the swing.

We always did.

It was quieter than I remembered. The metal creaked slightly in the wind, empty and patient, like it had been waiting for something that never returned.

“Why here?” she asked.

“Because it’s the last place that still feels like us.”

She smiled, but it did not reach her eyes.

“Where we lost everything,” she said.

I did not understand it then.

I thought the loss was happening in that moment. In the way she stood a little farther away than she used to. In the way her voice felt careful. In the way she turned and walked away while I stayed.

But the truth was simpler.

She was gone long before she left.

And so was I.

Time passed again. Quietly.

Until one night, on my twenty-eighth birthday, I found her name.

It felt strange to look at it. Like something unfinished was still waiting. Like maybe we had just paused, not ended.

So I texted her.

Me: “So… twenty-eight.”

For a moment, it felt like stepping back into something we had left open.

She replied.

Not with words.

A photo.

A baby wrapped in pink. Small. New. A life that had already begun.

And beside her, a man’s hand resting on her shoulder. Steady. Certain. Like it had been there long before I thought to come back.

Then her message came.

“You were always my backup plan.”

I stared at the screen.

I smiled, or at least I tried to.

Me: “Guess I was safe then.”

There was a pause.

Long enough for something inside me to settle into the truth.

Then she sent one last message.

“You were never the backup. You were the one I hoped would choose me before I had to choose someone else.”

I read it once.

Then again.

And suddenly, everything made sense.

The distance.

The silence.

The swing.

We were never waiting for time.

We were waiting for each other.

And neither of us moved. We called it patience. We called it timing.

But it was hesitation.

And hesitation is quiet enough to live with.

Until one day, it becomes everything you have left.

I did not reply after that.

There was nothing I could say that would not sound like regret.

Some promises are not broken.

They are simply outlived.

And some people are not lost all at once.

They fade while standing right in front of you.

By the time you notice, they are already gone. You just have not learned how to leave yet.

[mindscapes-shadows-of-myself]

The rain had been falling for hours, relentless and indifferent, hammering against the tall, arched windows of the library. Inside, the air was dense with the scent of old paper, wax polish, and a faint metallic tang I could not name. Shadows clung to the corners, pooling like ink spilled from an unseen hand, and the flicker of candlelight made them dance as if the walls themselves breathed. I sat alone at a heavy oak table, my fingers tracing the rim of a chipped coffee cup, staring into the black liquid as if it might answer the questions I could not speak.

I felt a presence, though the room was empty. A boy, a stranger, yet impossibly familiar. His eyes were my own, dark and endless, reflecting every fear I had of solitude and every longing I had buried. He did not speak. I did not speak. Words would have shattered the fragile tension that hung between us, a delicate web of recognition and doubt.

I argued with him silently, though the argument twisted back on me, folding the lines between us. Why do you linger here, where no one can see you? Because this is the only place where I might see you. Every face I had ever encountered, every fleeting smile, every passing gaze blurred into a tapestry of ghosts. Were they real, or were they shadows like him, like me?

I wanted to scream at him, at myself, at the endless corridors of this library that seemed to stretch beyond the walls. I was tired of pretending meaning existed in fleeting encounters. Tired of pretending connection could be more than a cruel illusion. His silence was deafening, a mirror of my own, and I realized I had been searching not for others, but for myself.

The library shifted. Shelves bent subtly toward me, their books whispering voices I almost recognized. The candle flickered violently, and shadows stretched across the walls, taking forms both familiar and alien. I saw myself wandering corridors I had never entered, reading manuscripts I had never written, hearing echoes of laughter and grief that were mine and not mine. The boy—myself—leaned closer, and the line between shadow and flesh began to dissolve. I was speaking, yet the words were not mine. I was moving, yet the library moved me, guiding me through its labyrinth of thought and memory.

Do you want to be saved? I asked, knowing the answer. Saved from what? The reply came in understanding rather than words. There was nothing external to fear. The maze was inside me, carved from my own mind, lined with the faces of strangers who had always been fragments of myself.

Recognition trembled through me, a hollow comfort born from the collision of isolation and truth. The rain softened outside, whispering against the glass like a slow exhale. The library seemed to sigh with me, walls and books and shadows acknowledging that I was awake, aware, alive in the dark. The boy across the table, the stranger who had always been me, leaned into the shadows, and in that moment I understood: connection is not always found in others. Sometimes it exists only in the reflection of the self, in the recognition of the stranger we carry within. That is enough to keep the mind searching, enough to keep it awake, enough to keep it alive.

The world outside continued, indifferent and infinite, but inside, the library breathed with me. Shadows shifted, the rain traced silver veins along the windows, and candlelight trembled like a heartbeat. I sat at the table, staring into the coffee, and for the first time, I was not alone.

[moments-inmotion]

Shadows of Myself

The rain had been falling for hours, relentless and indifferent, hammering against the tall, arched windows of the library. Inside, the air was dense with the scent of old paper, wax polish, and a faint metallic tang I could not name. Shadows clung to the corners, pooling like ink spilled from an unseen hand, and the flicker of candlelight made them dance as if the walls themselves breathed. I sat alone at a heavy oak table, my fingers tracing the rim of a chipped coffee cup, staring into the black liquid as if it might answer the questions I could not speak.

I felt a presence, though the room was empty. A boy, a stranger, yet impossibly familiar. His eyes were my own, dark and endless, reflecting every fear I had of solitude and every longing I had buried. He did not speak. I did not speak. Words would have shattered the fragile tension that hung between us, a delicate web of recognition and doubt.

I argued with him silently, though the argument twisted back on me, folding the lines between us. Why do you linger here, where no one can see you? Because this is the only place where I might see you. Every face I had ever encountered, every fleeting smile, every passing gaze blurred into a tapestry of ghosts. Were they real, or were they shadows like him, like me?

I wanted to scream at him, at myself, at the endless corridors of this library that seemed to stretch beyond the walls. I was tired of pretending meaning existed in fleeting encounters. Tired of pretending connection could be more than a cruel illusion. His silence was deafening, a mirror of my own, and I realized I had been searching not for others, but for myself.

The library shifted. Shelves bent subtly toward me, their books whispering voices I almost recognized. The candle flickered violently, and shadows stretched across the walls, taking forms both familiar and alien. I saw myself wandering corridors I had never entered, reading manuscripts I had never written, hearing echoes of laughter and grief that were mine and not mine. The boy—myself—leaned closer, and the line between shadow and flesh began to dissolve. I was speaking, yet the words were not mine. I was moving, yet the library moved me, guiding me through its labyrinth of thought and memory.

Do you want to be saved? I asked, knowing the answer. Saved from what? The reply came in understanding rather than words. There was nothing external to fear. The maze was inside me, carved from my own mind, lined with the faces of strangers who had always been fragments of myself.

Recognition trembled through me, a hollow comfort born from the collision of isolation and truth. The rain softened outside, whispering against the glass like a slow exhale. The library seemed to sigh with me, walls and books and shadows acknowledging that I was awake, aware, alive in the dark. The boy across the table, the stranger who had always been me, leaned into the shadows, and in that moment I understood: connection is not always found in others. Sometimes it exists only in the reflection of the self, in the recognition of the stranger we carry within. That is enough to keep the mind searching, enough to keep it awake, enough to keep it alive.

The world outside continued, indifferent and infinite, but inside, the library breathed with me. Shadows shifted, the rain traced silver veins along the windows, and candlelight trembled like a heartbeat. I sat at the table, staring into the coffee, and for the first time, I was not alone.

[jonathanmoya1955]

A Peach Seed Thrown Away

A Peach Seed Thrown AwayIt was late spring—the kind of daythat wears winter’s breath.I was seventeen,waiting for the 6:42 a.m. trainto take meto my college interview.I wasn’t sureI wanted to go.The station was mostly empty—just the usual commuters,coffee cups steaming—small altars of routine.He stood near the vending machine,maybe a few years older,maybe not.He wore a green jackettoo thin for the…

A Peach Seed Thrown Away