Conversations on Science, Culture and Time
The Threads We Leave Behind
The Watchman tossed and turned in his narrow bed, the chill of the morning doing little to quiet his restless mind. The child’s question echoed in the corners of his thoughts, gnawing at him with an insistence that no amount of pulling the blanket over his head could muffle. "What if the memories weren’t mine to forget?" The words struck like a splinter he couldn’t pry loose, sharp and nagging.
At his feet, Moss, his ever-faithful border collie, let out a low, impatient whine. The dog had been watching him with an intensity that suggested he shared the Watchman’s unease. Finally, Moss stood, padded over to the bedside, and pawed at his master’s arm. The Watchman groaned, sitting up and rubbing his face. "All right, Moss. I’ll bite. You win. No one gets any rest, apparently."
The Watchman
The town lay quiet beneath a velvet blanket of winter, its snow-covered rooftops glistening under the pale light of a crescent moon. The hour was late, and though a few sounds of merriment escaped from the alehouse near the square—a clatter of mugs, a burst of laughter—even these seemed to be softening, like the sleepy yips of puppies settling down for the night. The cobbled streets wound through the town like frozen veins, silent and unbroken save for the occasional echo of footsteps. Night was creeping in, the kind of deep, impenetrable night that left no room for the lingering warmth of day. The cold had long since bullied the townsfolk into their homes, and chimneys puffed small clouds into the brittle air. Somewhere in the distance, a bell chimed, its notes carried on the icy wind.
A Winter Tale
The snowstorm roared like a wild beast, lashing at the young traveller with icy fangs. Athanasius, bundled in a cloak that did little to shield him, hunched over the neck of his weary horse. The beast snorted, steam rising from its nostrils as it plodded forward, each step a laborious battle against the snowdrifts.
"Easy there, old friend," Athanasius muttered, his voice nearly lost to the howling wind. His fingers, numbed despite his gloves, clutched the reins as he squinted into the white chaos. The road—if it could still be called that—had long disappeared beneath a thick blanket of snow, leaving him to trust in the horse’s instincts more than his own sense of direction.
The Lone Swordsman Goes Ambitious
…or delusional. It’s all a matter of perception.
Anyway, how did it all start? Well, by yours truly collecting watches. Why watches? Because in a world of planned obsolescence, they remind us that some things are still made to last. There’s a beauty in their craftsmanship, in the way they defy time even as they measure it.
And how did I come up with the idea for a book? (Wham! Wait, what?!?)
More than Silence: My Meandering on the Isle of Man
It took a bit longer than planned to sit down and continue this tale, partly because life had a way of throwing a few distractions my way since I returned. Actually even before my holiday, I managed to do what most people would think impossible – I "injured myself walking." Yes, you read that right. No daring escapades, no heroic sports feats, just an ill-timed, awkwardly angled step and bam! Torn adductor muscle. My friends were graciously baffled by how one manages such a feat without, say, catapulting oneself off a bike into the nearest tree (given my love for cycling), or at least attempting some ill-advised breakdancing in a crowded pub.
The reason I bring this up is that throughout the holiday, my injuries kept me from doing what I love most - nature photography. It was quite a bummer, to be honest. I half-expected it, even toyed with canceling the whole trip after the doctor’s grim face delivered the news about the recovery period. But I’m stubborn, so I went anyway.