31 sleeps until Christmas.
He's got six weeks a sullen doctor says
Is this the scale for our lives I wonder? The years the weeks and the days.
You remember where you were when the call came in
Blissfully unaware and then it changed everything
How could you know what they were going to say?
"You've got the job" or "it's the hospital, it's going to be today"
These things they divide the eras of our lives. They aren't measured in ticks and tocks
It's always "after little Ben came along" or "since the towers dropped"
Drill down further and you'll hit the epochs of our very existence.
"When I worked for Tesco", "when I retired", "when I went up to infants".
Funny how folk say school days are the best of your lives
Now school was ok, I can see why they'd say
But chances are it's based on lies.
See, you look back at things favourably. Overlooking the negative parts.
The dreary hours in detention or the time you split your trousers in class.
The embarrassment that lasted weeks is now an anecdote for reunions
And if you went, I'm sure, school days weren't nearly half as fun as your uni ones.
So the ticks keep tocking and the clocks ain't stopping and the hours will always make days
We can work then sleep like good little sheep then the days will only make greys.
Or in my case, nothing.
Time gains it's substance from when you look back at it.
24 hours can be a day or, all those hours can flit
Chances are you work and each work day echoes the next.
Emails and phone calls. A pit stop for lunch. Having relationships over text.
Look back over the last 5 years and rejoice that memory that sticks
I got a fiver that says it ain't the 9 hours straight that you spent alone on Netflix.
See, you might not keep a diary but your brain does and you might not know.
Have you ever looked back in the evening and felt that morning was days ago?
The time was full of wonderful things to keep the brain alert and engaged
Nothing slipped by unnoticed and the diary was full on that page.
Take a look at the 27 club.
Hendrix, Winehouse, Cobain
Chances are there's more pages in your diary but most of those are plain
All of us organic. Decaying as time slides by.
The most we can ask is a fair amount of time so come death, we won't ask why.
Our pages full of joy and tales
Of how it feels when the wind fills our sails
It's said that time flies, but I find often it stops and sits
The world may not remember us but we can always remember it.
How it's amazed with its sights
Its days and its nights
Oh, the ways it delights
I digress...
I guess I should go. Check my watch and I know it's only 18000 sleeps until death.