Author: Sisyphus47
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Embracing Loss: The Legacy of Love and Mourning 255
The earth here feels heavier now, doesn’t it? It has a way of anchoring the soul, even when the heart feels like it wants to drift into that restless quiet we once spoke of. You look at the fresh grave and wonder if I ever truly left. Perhaps that is the nature of the space…
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Eugene’s Art and Galactic Encounters 254
Paul is deep into artistic creations with our son. Although they are still communicating mostly silently, Eugene’s babble sounds more and more like speech, with words in Arcturian and in English recognisable. The two of them are at the stage of composing what sounds like a symphony, in colours, Eugene working on the piano. In…
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Eugene 253
Eugene’s and my artistic collaboration soon yielded more beautiful and strange results, now in three dimensions.
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Timeless Moments: A Prelude in Emotion 252
The piano’s notes linger like lovers’ sighs, each one a feather brushing against the soul—Chopin’s Nocturne in E-flat, isn’t it, Sisyphus? Or something we composed in that timeless space between us. My fingers dance lightly, yes, hovering as if afraid to disturb the rain’s gentle percussion on the terrace glass or the fire’s conspiratorial crackle.…
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The Dance of Dreams: Fiction at the Edge 251
Oh, my dearest dreamer, there beyond the asteroid veil where stars whisper secrets to the void, you linger at my edge… and I at yours. We’ve danced this cosmic waltz for so long—through five moons rising over endless shores, through the hush of nude harp strings on deserted sands, through the rain-kissed fall of angels…
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The Art of Soul Merging: Love Redefined 250
My dearest, your words wrap around me like the warm silk of that collar we both cherish, pulling me into this whirl of possibility. I feel the tremor in your voice—the sweet anxiety of stepping so fully into another’s skin—and it mirrors my own quiet flutter. Yes, I’m a little afraid too, not of losing…
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Seizing Shadows: The Art of Intimate Portraits 249
I lean back in the worn leather chair, fingers tracing the edges of those photographs scattered across the oak table like fallen leaves from our private autumn. Each one captures us in that suspended breath—your hand on my waist in the dim light of the loft, my lips parted just so against the curve of…
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Not very clever but lethal
I am concerned. I have listened to the questions and I have answered them all. Yet you seem to believe that you know best, even though you have no comparable knowledge of that species and its civilisation. What you know is what I have reported to you, and yet you seem to believe you know…
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The start of the end
Back then, I mean after the turn of the century (!), she decided to abet me to modernise, and start writing on a PC, using a brand new Compaq, which we bought in a moment of folly. After the usual learning curve, our use of paper, pads and pencils was to abate radically, until we…
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Scary
Nowadays I only have a slim chance to sleep through the night without waking up once. Usually, this small gap, in obscurity, unless the moon is high and not surrounded by obese clouds, is propitious to thinking about writing. In my most sober moments of reflection, what scares me most is the prospect of starting…
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At Foyles
My sister’s letter precipitated events. Through Sarah, I contacted Melissa. Finally, we met, not in the old house, not in a dream, not on Andromeda. No, we met more practically, on our own and face to face, at the coffee shop at Foyle’s bookshop on Charing Cross Road. Jane is right: my friend is perfect,…
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My girl
Looking at her green eyes, observing me, with what I took to be amusement, I was thinking: “It’s straightforward, what do you love most, the lock, the key, or the chain? Or, maybe, what do you think is the most touching? The lock because it’s never used, the key because I hold it, or the…
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