A temporal shift into overdrive; a careful oblivion, safely set to autopilot mode.
A steal of a minute here, a glimpse of an hour there the next. Going through the motions like clockwork, but outside the pitter patter continues, with the dull and dreary dampness showing no signs of coming to a sunny concrete conclusion.
We fight to keep from drowning in a sea of our own dreams, holding on to words that we have heard tried and tested many times before – the very same words that are now used to break and belittle ourselves into becoming masters of sorrow.
Attempts to take a permanent and solid charge of our lives are, ironically, out of our control: be it from worrying if the colour to the new kitchen countertop will be able to nicely complement that of the unidentified Matisse painting oddly placed above it, to coming to terms with a difficult and reluctant goodbye when it comes to delicate matters of the heart.
There are always the littlest things to be fretful about, and the life-changing decisions that demand every inch of our attention. Yet they can be so routine, it is as though they never happened; and the cycle continues.
It can be just like this particular rousing tune of a track by Mr Owens, with yet another awesome jam unleashed with such delicious ferocity in its closing moments – it would first leave you feeling short of breath and wallowing in self pity, but you remain confident in knowing that later you would be completely alright again.