My father was 64 when he died last September. So many things I wanted to talk to him about but we never made it. This is a part of life I shall never understand. Like the loss of my basic school teacher when I was 13, and he just 36. I see no explantion nor consiliation.
I have a book of first colour photos (autochrome technique) from 1917 and on, it is amazing to see these times in colour, as black-and-white movies/pictures make the impression this has been so long ago that it's almost not true. But those were people just like us and they are all gone. Puts one into perspective, though does not really give a solution.
Maybe my unresolved attitude to transcendental and my lack of religion partially drives my scientific interests, but perhaps even more me taking photos, keeping a diary/blog time to time, just trying (perhaps quite uselessly and desperately) to capture a moment of time, moments of our lives.
[my inner voice to Anatoly]