On days

Time passes wearyingly, it seems almost too human how the hours stretch as the shadows do, lengthening along the wall. The days do not know what they are, being only the intervals of light in between each nightfall. What are these days? The means by which we measure time tells us how much we know of it. We know it through light and dark; we assign it numbers, to pin it down, give it some relation to ourselves, give it definition in some way; we look at events, mapping them along the years--perhaps births, deaths, wars and disaster, all things significant to ourselves.

These thoughts...I derive an odd sensation of dissociation--blindness--from them. Am I wrong? Am I right? And if so, where shall I go next? Of course, the thoughts have always been familiar to me, you, but they look so strange on their own, plucked out of our daily lives. They seem to be an odd set of conclusions. Is this what we learn from our days? About days? Things look so strange out of context, time slips out of my hands, like quicksilver, each time I reach out to grasp it; now, I do not believe it is an entity in itself.

It is almost as if I am talking to myself, writing on this thing.
Thoughts...I could drown in them...due to pressure differences between the outside and the inside. I wonder if anyone else has a similar view on the human body.

Where do our days go? It seems almost as if we come to nothing as much as we come out of nothing. We go where our days send us.