It is upon the pages of time that our passage through life is recorded. Each detail, every moment, no matter how important or insignificant . This life is our book to write, our great adventure and endevour upon the stage of mortality. Yes, this is our chance to be, our opportunity to grasp every gift that comes our way and turn them into miracles.

The sun that shone, in a long forgotten spring has gone,
The trees with green leaves that died when the autumn came.
Winter tells its sordid tale on mother natures earth,
Many things seem to die only to be reborn in the spring.
Oceans of the world keep on turning, and our lives they drift on by,
Sometime I start to wondering if we've played this scene before.

Should we feel remose that we will not be able to experience the entire passing of time on earth, the moments we do experience are less that a blinking of an eye in the full context of time. Yet who are we to seek importality, what rewards would that bring, and considering eternity what value would those reward have upon our final passing from this life, they would be worthless once time stopped.

Of all the gold and riches we may own,
The material this that bring tempory joy,
WIll all have no value with the passing of time.

The only things we can take with us from this life are our memories, chronicles of the mind, the good and the bad, the special moments and those not so great, those feelings of loving and being loved, the things that brought us joy and happiness; these are ours to savour through eternity, forever, over and over, to pass away the moments when time exists no more.

"All you can take with you when you die are your memories."