Dust

I am asthmatic. At least on paper. I never really get a bout of wheezing unless i get caught in a dusty environment. They say i am allergic to dust. I am fascinated by dust. Dusty hard-bound red books in tall library shelves. Dusty windowpanes where you can behind streaks of light when you run your fingers over them. Dusty fans which look like pinwheels as they spin above you as you stare aimlessly. Those shiny particles of dust that look like floating honeydew in blocks of sunlight that stream through the leaves.

Dust. I hate dust too. It is so static. I denotes stagnancy. Oblivion is difficult, but dust pisses me off. 'Cause you remain as a relic begging to be remembered, not yet lost, refusing to get lost in time. I hate blowing the dust off every time. Though i like seeing the dust play in light again.

And at times, the dust gets to me. I suffocate. The air grows thicker and my lungs go so small it can hardly go smaller to push the air out. The air stagnates within my body. Sediments dust. I cough, but it is an exertion. I try to breathe, but why is the air so fucking heavy?!!

I am stifled. Straitjacketed. The room is big. The windows open. Words float around like those shimmering particles of dust. Golden specks of happiness. I am disgusted. The air suffocates me. Why are they stealing the air i breathe? Or is it that the air is too thick with words when i dont want to speak any? The windows are open. I suffocate.

I hold a kerchief to my nose. To keep away the dust. And the stench. I walk out graciously.

Ctrl. Alt. Shift. Escape. Delete.