I love the significance of others. Of myself. Mourning the loss of people. Celebrating what they left behind. Like a detective. The footprints of those who have come and gone. Imagining what they were like, what it was like to be them, stealing the best of their times.

People, like living books, have significance. Whether they realise it or not. Their finger prints are all around us, their echoes, their shouts, their whispers.

The ache of never knowing a loved one, all because you don’t exist on the same page as them. In a different chapter.

Pages each with a number. Each individual with the mark of eternity, never one the same. Visiting the planet for a blink, the turn of a page.

A library of exquisite treasure, some volumes accessible through artefacts. Some volumes treasured by family some lost for all eternity.

Their echoes haunt me with their stories to be told. The pioneers, the loved, the unloved. The enormity of this world hidden within each life. To the ones in this chapter I say “Wake up!”

You are here, you are time, you are an expression of those who have been. Acknowledged or not. This chapter is not yet finished, leave a foot note, a dog ear. Leave it.

The echoes of time are deafening for those who have ears to hear. Lifetimes, not enough. Not enough pages to write the words.

Their lives so important, so interesting, so gone. The wealth of the ages, locked away in padlocked pages.

By Danna Johnston.