Slowly fading with the sun, a leaf fallen from a tree, never to be regained once it’s gone. Something so important to our existence, shapes who we are, and yet, we will lose over half of it as we age. As lost as it may seem, it can be found, but not in it’s true form, only a fabricated lie that we make ourselves believe. Hidden deep within ourselves, it tells us not who we are, but who we once were. How you interpret it, is up to you. Dwelling on a melancholy recollection of mistakes or truly living in the present. Move forward, to move on from your mistakes, or regret the past rather focusing on the now toward a goal in the future.

Memory. A gift from your past, the only thing you get to keep. A personal history. A story written in the pages of time, slowly fading in the sunlight of life, defining it. Some fleeting, leaving without a moment's notice, some enduring, collected on a shelf like treasured stamps or coins, until they slowly fade, words disappearing on a page, swallowed up in the whirlwind of life. In a myriad of experiences we only get to hold a few tight; our memory is limited. What will you chose to remember? How will those memories change you?

Time. The healer and the killer. Leaving our memoir to slowly deteriorate, change. However what we chose to remember, can be our greatest teacher. How you chose to view your past and your life is up to you. Will you regret or be grateful for the trials you had, ignoring the teacher, failing to learn the lesson of your mistakes? A map of where you have been, sometimes smudged by incorrect recall, but can perhaps show us where to go in the future. Becoming a time traveler to your past, revisited in sensory detail. Last remembering the incident, changing how you viewed it before, modifying your past, modifying your story.

 A memory, a lens on your life, peering into who you once were. Fading, with time, so hard to remember clearly, trying to grasp the wind. You can feel it but you can’t quite see it. You know it’s there but then it’s gone, flowing away like water in the distance of time. You can never go back once it’s changed, your perspective altered. I remember something, a flash of light, a face. A warm summer day a breath of wind, sunshine kissing my eyelashes. Warmth, a girl, gone. Gone in the whirlwind of thoughts, memories, swirling in my head. Was it real? A dream? A memory? Once a reality, or rather, a hope, belief to what my life once was?

I remember. Childhood. A dream, a fantasy of how I viewed my world. The beauty of the trees, the sun. My world around me was dictated by my thoughts wants and needs. Trying to recall this beautiful time in my life I can’t quite put my finger on it. Faded memories, faded story. Who am I? What makes me who I am today? Lost in the pages of time the dust and wear.

    Trees. Looking up at them wishing that one day I could climb to the top of the great tall lengths of the beautiful green trees. Not a worry on my mind, my imagination untainted by the world. A girl again. Her face smiling back at mine, brown hair. “Lauren!” she called, her voice fading, fading into the depths of my memory, the depths of my story. The beautiful memories of childhood, a time of carelessness, innocence unmarred by the world, lost in the library of memories. A memory so beautiful, pushed away in the depths of my mind to be filled with facts and due dates, a list of to do’s and stress. FIlled with so much information, all to forget a beautiful story. Stories of learning, loving, laughing, pain, beauty and sadness. If one can remember their story, maybe, one can glimpse their future.

A thick dust covering books of experiences, I look, searching to find some indicator of who I once was to give me some clue about who I am now. Pages turning. Ink fading. Your story changing each time you read it. What will the future bring? A loving memory of life, or a regret of not doing enough? A glimpse of the past will maybe bring a glimpse into the future. Winter, snow, laughter. Snowballs, a snowman with a hat and a carrot for a nose. “Lauren! Look at our snowman!” she said. “Lauren!” the snow melted in an instant, “Lauren, you are supposed to be writing!” I looked up at my teacher, startled at his presence and angry that once again the memory had faded. Memories a gift of childhood, a gift to now if you can remember it. Trying to capture it in a picture, a video, vaguely trying to look into one’s past, to find who you are, looking for your future.

Fading in the wind, what will time tell you? A story of regret or of joy. What will you read between the lines of your past? Will time be your greatest teacher? Or your Greatest enemy? What will you chose to remember? What will you write in the pages of your memories, your story? What will you remember? The feelings, places, or faces of people? Rather, what will they remember about you?