What is written.

As we live through time, as moments pass, never to come again, as change is ever happening, I wonder why doesn't it become still. The moments we enjoy, the crossings between lives of people, the chapters of our lives that are always turned onto the next each day. the lives  we cannot cross, yet we observe on the path that runs parallel, yet we wonder, what if? The lives  who were with you on a path, and changed paths, the lives of people whose memories you turn back and remember, the lives of people you know you would turn back to remember soon. The places you associate yourselves to. the places that gave birth to situations. the situations that gave way to a brief window of coincident time among us. and it vanishes, like a story we play ourself into gets over as you turn the last page of a book. and yet, only when you turn the page does a new page come upon to you, and so we keep turning pages, anticipating and enjoying, looking back, at the bridges we will cross and the bridges we crossed.

inspired unnecessarily from a statement about oneself 'growing old and immature.'