Some Live For Moments, Others Live For Entire Lifetimes In The Flash Of Your Eyes

One Year Lived For You Is Ten Years Lived For Me — A Doctor’s Line

Though The Date Is Shared, Time Is Not — For All Live At Accordance To Their Own Speed

Excuse my pandering Parlance, But I had to get you here!

Time — Do you ever question yourself that you have enough of it? — all of a sudden, running away from you, like a mimicking parade of hellos;

It seems at certain points in one’s timeline, you seem to be without, but just yesterday you had an abundance of time — ever chasing you, ever chasing them.

Why did I wait so Late? — asking you always to dine.

Time — Oh, the practicing burden of time; ever-ceasing, ever-becoming, beyond the venture point of the humane eye, if you dare to understand it;

It may flummox you and only drag you away from the safe sadness of closure, of that forgiving life.

Almost like a redemption day — if that be your will.

Time — What is it? What do I make of it, sitting every so often in a realm where a second beats on by like a Zebra down Times Square — flashing!;

Or in a seemingly opposite space, where ten seconds go by before you even flinch your eyelashes?

After a long endured lifetime, what is remembered is only mild flashes.

So What Are You? — What am I making of You?

Do I regard you as a friend, a foe, or someone unbeknownst, tugging away at me for me to know you, like a sniping junction of what will be, or what won’t be — or what has been; Is that fate when it purely happens — simple as it is, is that fate, as there is only one way things will go, and which you will live?

If I hadn’t met you — or I hadn’t turned to that corner — or I hadn’t done this, is that still Fate; Is the manner of how things unfold fate, but the simple fact that they are — and we to be to it, jostling for some sense.

Is that Fate, by and by, with how things are now; repeated over from yesterday?

Was there, or could there have been any other way to things, and how we all live today?

Creeping around my bud, I tie down the near-endless trends that make up this album, full of songs, coming from different periods, whilst time compresses down on me, like a tightening press;

That queer fondness for memory and sentiment in remembering it; but we are beings of Time — however questionable it may be how we think of it. I see the all dates which I put down to remind myself of a wee capsule — a moment, a thing to be lived, then to be quickly lost, only to find itself appearing up once again, to reminisce on itself, whilst inside of you;

These thoughts you read, are purely coming out in a single draft — time, unless you give it what it is, will seemingly come out jumbled and confused — Almost always.

Perhaps, even in all the time measured, and lived through, more importantly, will always remain that swaying mystery; Thank Goodness!

I say be careful of Nostalgia is an Addictive metier.

Memories flicker and fade, giving you a strange yearning for things to be so again — watch that, as that seemingly benevolent thing can lead you to war.

You as a humane thing, in the vast cognitive array of the universe never grow like trees — so uneasily definable and changing by the season;

You shape and morph yourself by happenstance, happy, painful, or somewhere utterly murky, snaking in-between.

I said this to a friend — if nothing else happens, expect to make her think; perhaps that’ll be the repose in the breath of suffering.

Time affects you like a bead of water, that nestles itself down a window pane, during the midst of a breathless winter.

Serving itself, as it trickles down this pure plain, that can commonly be had, swerving past each droplet, till coming to crash on the window seal. Gone, swept, and evaporating away.

WHY QUESTION TIME?

I cannot tell how many seemingly too-good, to-be-true things fall apart on the slightest introspection or investigation;

So I answer you the most basic of questions — where so many truthfully sounding things fail, only spouting out their own hubris of creation. They lack the core substance — almost ungrateful to the manner of things all around.

I remain standing, staring at the passing of children on the streets — wondering where they’ll be hurt, and how;

I remain standing, staring at the painful sight of their possibilities, I always wonder where any of them will end up;

Seasons come, seasons dare beset us what to be, watching them all come and go — so why do I question that? Most could happily back and ignore such things, so why do I?

Apart from being your friendly miscreant, dresser of tweed and blue robs and roamer of time and space, I have always been an Asker of the Wherefore, an Inventor of a certain craft;

I ask why, in service to the complex chords that weave our world into being, and if halts any unnecessary violent suffering, or gives another a moment of delighting repose, from the grueling edge of the world, so be it;

If I can show them the unmolested beauty of a mountain, or the staring coldness of the Moon down on us, I’ll do that too;

Of course, my reasons are too wide to casually say in this piece of certain quirks;

Annoying, and dangerous it can be, I have learned how to temper that voice.

So heed your horses, with me, things will be [laughably] revealed in the good coming of time!

So there is no surprise why I chuckle and flock around this Questioning of said thingy-Robert

One Year Lived For You Is Ten Years Lived For Me

Time remains — but what is time?

Time, a doting measure, a fearful measure, never consistent; rather, I feel you take it too much for granted, like a good thing, you didn’t know the worth of it until it was lost forever —

For it, to never be there, ignoring these stark truths, to seek a momentary pleasure; for what? for whom?

Hands float in the red, whilst you say: I’ll be Alright.

I ask you that — if it is gone in a moment, and the upset is for a lifetime, why burden yourself with that chore of knowing? Of knowing more than yourself, as you are, in this current moment.

Maybe why the vehicle for learning is so burdensome for some; though, it depends on the weight of the knowledge, because believe me, there are some things that never get easier to know of.

Journeying as the lonesome traveler, death is never too far away — through countless lost friends, strangers, and sights, all flaring beyond my reach, death is the only firm company I have ever kept.

War and all its venting circulations is the other; married to the first, whilst instructing a new wave, which becomes a third, that is Despair.

Form And Time

I break away from my denser forms, to get through to you. I am lost on many, but to the ones who get hooked, who dare themselves to understand, that what truly matters to me;

Though my hopes to tidy and shake the canon are evergreen, so do my simmering disappointments.

All the songs done in custom to death, beguile me like naught else, all the Blackstar songs — Hurt, You Want It Darker; No Plan. Yet an End, may not be the end of all things — perhaps in that inception of time, is something humans can grapple with; just yet.

I hear it in the voice and it affects me like naught else too, and in that, I cherish it — a grief plate or a plain for the grieving that needs to be had, for aught to be done in any meaning or worth;

I hear of the images others give me, kindly or foolishly cruel: Some say I am a grump, some say I am merely sketching to the ground — What I am to myself is purely Scottish Whim in the depths of a Northern Winter, and how far I plunge into it, firey, as it often comes my way as a red-headed Irish Lass, is how I choose to bare it.

Swedish in tone — Yorkshire by lovable nature — grim as a repeatable German Poem — I am a mixture who is shuffleable sometimes, like some ill game of backgammon!; Or maybe I am the mere fool, you’ll know!

I prefer a Sightseer, a Doctor, someone who would stop and stand there, in case it can be seen or heard; even felt, if the stars are aligned well, and the voices too, it can be —

Let Me Introduce You To Father Time!

Time can be like talking to your grandfather, who suddenly, halfway through the conversation, falls electrically asleep, switched-off and drooping, only to awaken thirty minutes later, yet for him, it was a mere second, as he continues where he left off;

Perhaps a likely stroke of the mind — but an eccentricity that is always funny to be experienced

Like me, it is how I am to most, in the passage of time; I look back, and they’re mostly gone. I hurtle forth too fast, and back there, on this forlorn road, they’re disappearing fast; not always, but in the moments that count the most.

Like happiness, I happen to come across a few who make it all worth the pain; it isn’t easy, god knows I never decided because of that, and against the popular narratives of the days, it isn’t fun — certainly isn’t because others listen;

I do what I do because it is Right, because it is decent, and on the worst of days, I can figure myself back to where I was.

I cannot dare to bring myself to lose that — it is so much easier to destroy than to create, and create something worthwhile and even daring to be timeless; a good friend is what I do it for because I can see it in their eyes.

Even if I lose it, I will remain to see that sight, to bring it all back to me; and if it trickles down to help another, a family, an orphan, or something more, then I’ll try as that is the best thing for me to do.

I’ve become very lost in seasons of late, and now, I see that core essence of myself returning after too much. I dare reveal that these are my wounds to forebear, what are yours? God knows what they are — and what they remain on yer.

I shan’t pander to you, hold it in your silence, and repent to the life by choosing to dare to thrive for the mere moments before the inevitable, that is what I say!

Flaring away… Time is never frozen, nor will remain there for you to get back on your feet — that is on you; though it gets so lost sometimes.

A THOUGHT IS LOST

Liberally quartered, a thought is lost by a sudden distraction; An image, a thought that was ever-so clear in the mind, is gone, simply by the unimportant fixing of the eyes, on an image to replace it on the forefront of thought.

Like a capsule, caught in the rain, whilst the warfare comes down asunder around —

The abated through-line: Are we well fitted for the times that we’re born into?

Stand to know what you have to lose. Time goes by so quickly, to the dancing face; smirking at you — Oh, fool!

Remain to know what you cannot be without, and to be without it you’re no longer yourself — question it, hold it as you must.

Only be by it, in years, you always said I wonder if it stands true, too true, to be true.

Love can be lost — a baby to be forborne in remembrance, but once the self has eroded away entirely, I fear that no hand can come down and soften the heated blows;

Even to poke you, so you can feel it like pain again. Don’t lose yourself, try and see tomorrow, even if it hurts now, it’ll be kinder than living through it later.

Time, if it is anything to be grasped, is in the seconds;

Time is only the perception, for ten years may go as slowly as one year; Whilst one may go as long as ten, and then ten may go as swiftly as one.

For lessons learned; Even the most trusted can be taken away — By any want or such. Over eagerness can wrought a life to pain, too quickly —

Looking back, the sense of time seems to devolve itself, right on its wraps, the falsity that time seems to be heavy going when moving forth in time; Whilst it seems easily terrifying that all things before are a mere flash in the eye of time — the present moment is the true worth of time to the living.

Though that doesn’t go without the substance of yesterday — that is our history, and why it is the pillar of measure to all things;

How we react to the world — how we move, how we dare to proclaim tomorrow, whilst feeling untied to the yore of the yesterday, but we cruelly always are;

Even in the misshapen givens of independence, yesterday remains there — if remembered that is.

Looking back, I lie — I can remember everything;- anything, if I dared. And now, I dare not, not yet quiet.

In the course of things, comes my death; a thing I am resolved on, rather the question that gives me anxiety is one: Until Then?

The living to be done, the things to be lost, the things to betoken and take with you till the end, in all my reserves.

Don’t Waste Your Life — Time or all the days can never be given back; let allow taken. It is too easy to end up wasting all the time.

Don’t Waste or forego the Precious Gift that it is to say to yourself: Life, I’ll craft that reason to be, if naught else, in the eye of all things.

Don’t Waste You.

COME ALONG WITH THE DOCTOR’S NEWSLETTER

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WORDS FROM AN EVER-CURIOUS WRITER; THE WILL OF A DREAMWEAVER:

The CURATION — THE FINE RABBLE’S PUBLICATION:

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As ever, Dear Reader.