dust today is a chore. its a shameful smudge on our shiny egos. it's a sign of unkempt houses and careless housekeeping. my mother seems to agree. she tells me to dust the ashes of my incense, to chip off the wax that’s harden while dripping to the floor in beautiful outlines of their traveling paths that have frozen in time
i laugh as i refuse. i answer, asking what happened to dust being magic. to dust being the reminisce of saints, beggar’s velvet and the powder that allows butterflies to take flight. telling her if I dust now, i’m erasing the cremates of joan of arc, and the rubbing together to earth’s elements. i'm fighting my melted wax, my verification of living. of the passing of a a night. evidence of a romance. i wont clean, i’m erasing history and enchantment. i say i want to be where dust was the sugar left of time. where a candle not pouring itself into the world is a soul captured by its container. where my dust is stardust and it’s the sprinkles of an hourglass. where the only way to prove you truly exist is to show you had a light that once burned untamed. where my dust is speckled and glittering on the wings of moths and believed to scattered by fairies. where my dust is a meteor and a monkeys paw.
where dusting is a man in a ski mask. thieving time.
so she ends up doing it herself.
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