When An Existential Crisis Gets Overdue

I spend time thinking about very normal days That's I'd rush to return to Whilst being in normal days that I feel I'm not alive in In which reality is the slumber Consciousness blurred It'll have been written I won't have read it The answers available On a shelf whilst I take all the hours to ponder What is living When is the dream Why do I waste time when it's precious Why is it impossible to value every second The valuable downtime Rest Just to facilitate inaction Whatever is bought and paid for Is wasted or deferred As I sit conscious but in slumber Unaware but aware There are limited tomorrow's And I'm destined to be dust *I blame trying to rewrite a Cilla Black song for a contest :D