Nearly Three Thousand Fridays

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Nearly Three Thousand Fridays

 

Time passes so quickly, we take it for granted,
But the reality is that despite our age in this time,
It is not that long a period, in which we have aged,
Nor is it that far away that we reach the end of our line,
At fifty five as l am now, it is not that old,
It only amounts to just over twenty thousand days,
Or nearly 482 thousand hours of controlled,
Time, 29 million minutes, and in seconds it becomes a haze!
 
So you see the reality of used time is nothing really,
To some it might be seen as the blink of an eye,
Others again do not worry for they live carefree,
Never worrying if they have done enough to satisfy,
The inner clock face from behind their own,
Just living for the sake of one day following the next,
Weeks, leading to months, and again to years unknown,
Caring not for anything and never becoming vexed,
 
Yet l am always wondering, and constantly questioning all,
Looking back at what l have done with it,
And continually asking if l am standing tall,
Or have l wasted my time here on this lonely planet?
What do l have to show for the time eaten away,
By life’s extraordinary journey that we all walk,
Apart from where l am now, this very day,
Listening to the inward slow ticking of the clock?
 
Whilst clearing out my home, l came across a box,
A rather ordinary box, nothing special nor fancy,
But a storage container of past memory clocks,
Shadows of my distant and former self, previous me,
Having never been one to cling onto mementos,
It still came as a somewhat pleasant surprise,
But saddened me at the same time also,
For opening this little ancient disguise,
 
This box, nothing at all special is about me,
Containing within who l once was,
And now is nothing more than a disjointed diary,
Of times afore and old flaws!
Postcards, photos, a few badges here and there,
A manual, report and grading cards from school,
Birthday wishes, polished pebbles from God knows where,
Old mobile phones and a strange looking tool,
 
But nothing simply astounding about my life,
Just an assortment of lost memories,
Brought to the surface after a good rife,
Is all that is me, after twenty thousand days,
Of living in an ever decreasing time zone,
This is all l have in the way of memorable actualities,
From my time of birth to the day l left home,
A box of muddles and abstract Fridays!
 
And what have l learned about me this very day,
Looking through images and visuals from my past,
Well strangely, it was the teachers’ commentary,
That drew my attention the most and how aghast,
Some of them were with me as a youngster,
Yet others who saw me as the person l am today,
That of a gifted and imaginative writer,
Of a person unique despite all of life’s gateways,
 
Eventually l would find my peace and contentment,
Live my life in an orderly fashion,
My days would end without resentment,
And that l would find my truest passion,
Those who back then unwittingly spied,
A hidden talent and skill that would prove others wrong,
Content knowing that despite everything l tried,
Honestly and simply to belong,
 
To a world that cares not for difference,
In people, and everybody must be the same,
For that is what makes for balance,
Irrelevant to your name,
Yet l and others like me who see the world through eyes,
Of curiousness and questioning scrutiny,
Enjoy their nearly three thousand Fridays,
Understanding that time as short as it is, is always full of beauty!

© Rory Matier 2019

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