Dust of Ages
Entering the Labyrinth
They don’t scream. Don’t wait. Don’t ask.
You stand before a slope where the wind scrapes thornbushes against stone, and you realize — these ruins couldn’t care less who you are or why you came. There will be no museum plaques. No organized route. Only sounds that no one is making.
Mylai isn’t a city. It’s an error in memory, left behind after a logout. This is what places look like when empires come to die unofficially.
Past the Empires
Once, merchant ships passed here. Once, there were walls. Once, the name Holmi appeared in the records of archons. Later came Seleucia, then Silifke.
Mylai (Mylai), tucked against the shore in the shadow of Tashuju, became nothing. Not a capital, not a legend, not a curse. Just a place. Greek columns, Byzantine walls, Roman baths — as if civilization had been drafting something and never finished.
They pressed olive oil here. Buried people in carved-out cliffs. They say there was a temple to Apollo, but it vanished — just like the god himself — reappearing as a fence around a pasture.
Mylai is not a lost city. It was never found.
Shards of the Present
Rooflines turned into hollows choked with shrubs. Broken cisterns, Roman baths, olive presses — all lying exposed, like a body abandoned in the field.
The area isn’t protected, just occasionally observed. Sometimes archaeologists. Sometimes shepherds. The stones aren’t cataloged. They just are.
The Church of Theodore is no longer a church. The Cave of Apollo is no longer a cave. They don’t speak. They don’t stay silent.
They aren’t even clearly where or when.
Everything here feels like the aftermath of an apocalypse no one noticed.
Shadows on the Edge of Reason
Sometimes civilizations retreat quietly. Without battles, without epitaphs, without curses. They just stop appearing in the logs of time.
Mylai isn’t the past. It’s a glitch in the simulation, left behind as a test site. A place where stone refuses to obey the narrative.
You look at the remains of the baths — and you don’t know if anyone ever bathed there, or if comfort was only simulated.
You see a rock-cut tomb — and you’re not sure if they buried people there, or just fear.
You see a church — and understand it was never salvation.
Mylai is a dystopia that came before the beginning.
How Did We Get Here?
From Taschuju — 5 kilometers along the coast: either by the shoreline or through the hills. No signs. GPS will say: “nearby.” That’s the guide.
This is a route for those unafraid of thorn scratches, heat, and the debris of time. Bring water. Wear boots.
Ask the locals for “eski yeri,” the old place. They’ll point. Not because they remember — but because they’ve forgotten.
Echo in the Void
The silence here isn’t silence. It presses down. Not with sound — with awareness.
You walk among the remains of rooms where someone once ate, prayed, died. And you realize — this place isn’t extinct. It’s exhausted.
You offer your presence to the stone, and it rejects it. Mylai doesn’t need memory. It simply is.
No legends. No soil for cults. No cult of time. Ruins that couldn’t care less.
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