The sound of dust is the buzz of a fly, tone or timbre blurred away, no soul left in the sound, just a movement of air molecules, a residual vibration, drained of colour, bereft of body.  Dust.  The eventual echo of entropy. The partner of neglect arrives invisibly, silently, cannot be witnessed laying its soft foundations like the frost that comes in the night. Frost is water dust. Staleness of old bread. Old books – places where you thought dust could find no entry – between the leaves of letters, in the pages of old books, dust leaves its scent.  Like the poor, like the passed, dust is always with us.

This entry was posted in not precious, Present, Present not precious, Present, not precious - November 2016, Travel, Writing and tagged , . Bookmark the permalink.

One Response to Dust

  1. Today I get the Priestess: she’s deep! Wisdom that cannot be expressed in rational terms, the things only known to the subconscious, and which cannot be put into words without distorting beyond recognition, passive but powerful, unobtrusive. Thrilling.


What did you discover? Please share thoughts, links, comments below.

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s