Bing Bong

My, what a concept

To measure the bearing of the moon 

And the stars 

And the sun

And to decide that darkness and light

Ought to be separated 

Into meaningless digits of moments

Made up of other moments

All squish-squashed together

But still isolated

My, what a concept

To write them down, 

Those individual moments

To chart them and date them 

And spread them ‘round the world

In different languages

Different beliefs

The same ideas, but varying levels of difference

Different, different 

And still isolated

My, what a concept

To have a small metal band ‘round your wrist

That tells you exactly which moment it is

So you’ll never be late, perhaps even early

To your busy 

busy

busy 

comings and goings.

Your plans, events, arrangements, meetings, affairs

Whatever you want to call them, they all mean the same thing

An amount of moments spent 

Doing something you enjoy, despise, somewhere in between 

But still isolated

My, what a concept

To use these moments to be with someone you love

To file away these moments in a special cabinet in your mind

To pull them out again and again, and yet again

To go back to those moments, replay them 

To imagine yourself once again with that person

One last time

And still isolated

My, my

Time certainly is a strange concept, no?