Kyra left in the early hours of the morning and Von was sad to see her go and he thought of Rog and the times they danced the night into the day. Reaching into his desk, he pulled out two small metallic discs, no larger than the tip of a young girl’s finger, and placed them on his head behind his ears. Ambient noise faded away as wet ink vanishes into dry papyrus.

Reaching back into his desk, he retrieved a small black folio and taking pen to paper began to write, not as most do, but in the free flow of one concerned only with letting his snoot induced mind and hand communicate without interference. With the conversation of the night still whirling in his head, words appeared as fast as he could move his tired fingers, punctuation and grammar be damned.

I’m at the age where I have memories and then all I have is memories of memories, and of course, what I muse upon most is the memories that have forever slipped away and I wonder if I am less of me for that loss.

My body moves on its own accord, within its own time. I grow old, my eyes change and here in space there is nothing I can do about it.

When you see the person, you see yourself and if you can see past yourself in that person, you see the past, you see their book and from that book you can feel their future. So few have the ability to change their book one hundreds pages into their life and so they live trapped lives, stuck in a story, in illusions neither seen nor known.

There is the flow of life and that flow is always moving. When we obstruct that flow with resistance or negativity, we create pain. The resistance of standing against the flow of reality—hurts.

Here to empty my cup, of what I know to make room for something else, something more. Here in space, on Bravo, fate itself has both emptied our cup and we, with our concerns and worries and fears have filled it up again because we fear the emptiness, we fear the unknown, we fear the silence, and in space, there is nothing but infinite silence. So we wake up each day and the silence mocks us with the very thing we fear—the emptiness, the void, the blank black slate of the unknown.

Von put his pen down and scratched his head and he thought of Rog and Yul and he thought of connections and then he said under his breath, “frail it,” and poured himself one more shot.

Categories: Story, Von, Journal