'Fleeting As Dust"

Dust is what’s left when time finishes speaking. Not loss— no, not that dramatic— but evidence. Proof that something lived here long enough to be touched. It’s the fine print of existence, the quiet residue of movement, of breath brushing past breath. Dust doesn’t announce itself. It arrives already forgiven, already settled, already part of the room. It drifts without urgency, like it knows where it’s going even when it looks lost. Floating through light as if it remembers something we don’t have the language for anymore. Every grain carrying pieces of us— within the skin, layers of fabric, throughout the surface of the earth, broken moments embedded in matter— life reduced to its smallest confession. You don’t hear dust coming. You notice it only when the light catches it mid-fall, suspended, almost beautiful, like it’s asking to be seen without being named. It gathers where stories paused. In corners where laughter once leaned against the walls. In rooms where names loosen their grip and memories learn how to lie still. Dust doesn’t erase— it collects. It listens. It waits. It becomes the archive of everything we didn’t think would end. Dust is not destruction— (to be continued)