Day 349: Dust

Well, I’ve had all the fun writing film reviews this week. It’s been great. Exhausting, but great. I’m going to carry it on when I can, furthering my education in cinema, cutting my teeth on criticism, practising writing complete little articles.

But not tonight.

Tonight I’m editing photos, cooking pasta, then climbing into bed to watch an episode of Bodyguard and fall asleep - ten hour bar shift tomorrow, dreary.

Umm. I need something else to say. I need a few more words. Umm. Crepuscular. Fidget. Somnambulist. Oaken. Greying. Lamb chops. Yoghurt pot. Dirigible. Ordnance. Gulag. Golf course. Gershwin.

Will that do? Will those do? Please let me know in the comments, and don’t forget to like and subscribe, because that is what this all is about, make no mistake. Amassing lists of strangers who are not your friends, maneuvering yourself into popularity, proving to the universe that you are important, that you matter.

And Universe shrugs, pauses, then crumbles you and your entire planet to dust.

But the dust lives on, in new forms. And Universe crumbles those, too. And then the dust looks at itself and remembers, hey, it IS Universe. Dichotomy was in its dusty head, all along. In its dusty atoms, at its dusty core, ain’t nothing powering that micro star furnace but Universe. All is all is all. So I’ll crumble me up, turn me inside out, torch me dusty toes to fingertips. Can’t lose what I am, which is not only the surface form but also the eternal living potential that moves the form, breathes the dance into these vanishing shapes.

And that ain’t got any damn thing to do with number of likes on your Instagram post.

So shut your trap and get to living. This dust got patterns to swirl.

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