Monday, 22 July 2019

The Question of Days.

I’m becoming a bit obsessed with days at the moment. I was sitting in the garden through this evening’s warm twilight and thought:

As long as the sun burns and the earth turns there will be days.

But to us life forms it’s a bit more urgent than that, and tonight I calculated how many days would be allotted to a person who lived to be seventy, the biblical three score years and ten. Depending on how the leap years fall, it would be about 25,566.

It sounds a lot, doesn’t it? But if you fall into the habit of thinking ‘that’s another day gone, I wonder how many I have left’ every evening at twilight, the day that’s ending seems to have been very short and 25,566 doesn’t seem so very many at all.

I think I need somebody to sit with. Or a dog. Or a length of rope.

I remember sitting in my garden one evening a few years ago, finger picking my guitar and singing Mr Tambourine Man to serenade the rabbits. Days never occurred to me back then.

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