It is a universally unknown fact that weeks don’t pass in seconds, they pass in lightning strikes.
Each day is one count and suddenly, by Sunday you’ll realise Monday is only one count, or one day, away from your location of a cliff, with a beach and a few friends.
These lightning flashes are filled with half-full cups of tea gone cold and a trail of hob-nob crumbs marching from the bread bin.
They are overhead in forkfuls of salad and spag bol for dinner during a heat wave of thirty degrees plus.
They keep eyes blinking in after-shock to the speed of peak hour grocery store check-out lines. Hands which snatch that extra bag of crisps or that millionaire bar or snack nuts, layered nearby and waiting for their penultimate moment of existence; being consumed.
Whatever shape these weeks take, the end result breeds only another week. This isn’t Jurassic Park. Weeks don’t splice DNA of multiple time counters together. Grow up.
It’s the seasoning of spring, autumn, winter or summer which enables a comprehensible differentiation between weeks that doesn’t resemble the scratches of a physicist theorising light speed or a mathematician clocking shadow lengths.
Those are entirely other issues gone sideways. Shadows are longer and faster than light since light does not exist without them, but neither are as fast as weeks. Nor can they exist without them.
Light and shadow are merely window dressings rolling past backed-up nine in the morning traffic.
Look, a week has just passed again.
Did you see it?
Moony.
