Contrasting Roads.

I just watched an episode of Red Dwarf, a British sitcom which was a favourite of mine back in the early nineties. It was made in 1991, just thirty years ago, shortly before the theatre years replaced the photography years, and were to be followed in turn by the writing years. And when the episode finished, the lights in my mind went down, the reels on the projector began to turn, and the silver screen showed image after image of the following fifteen years: the people, the pleasures, the pains, the adventures, the journeys, the romances, the colours, the sights and sounds, the gains and the losses. It was a vibrant and colourful time.

The projector slowed when it arrived at the move to this house fifteen years ago. The colours and sounds faded as the landscape grew bleak and became dominated by a winding road of uncertain footing. Here was the start of the health issues and the growing sense of disenchantment with the human condition. The picture was now fringed by a dark mist which occasionally encroached further onto the road, a road on which the late lamented Lady B would sometimes approach with a candle to remind me of what had gone before. And then she walked out of the picture and headed for pastures new, and the road was empty of all but the search.

The search for what, you might ask. Meaning, I suppose; the truth about the state of being. What else is there when the baubles have fallen dull?