Scratches on a piece of stone

To be aware of time is akin to counting grains of sand in the desert; a known futility. Yet as I sip from this vintage cup of moments and memories called my past; I dare say, a little more respect would not have killed me. Is not everyman’s time bestowed upon him in a shielded hourglass hidden from view? And because the weight never changes, do we not carelessly and foolishly live as if there is as much to come, as has gone before?