Residue

I see the dust lining the edge of this monitor and remember the cause (mostly) of the dead skin cells that are shed every day. Ah, that science class so very long ago.

Could it be that memories are like dust we leave behind?

Could the phrase, “they left in a cloud of dust” mean more that what is kicked up from the dirt road as someone hurriedly leaves our presence? Well, my presence, at least. The dust is still there, lingering, drifting, waiting for the “dust to settle.”

The dust we leave behind.

Sunbeams that fill the dimly lit room, watching the floating collisions in space, drifting in and out of sight. In and out of memory. Those thoughts - those words that hang in the air. Drift into the sunlight. Drift into the foreground of remembrances.

Drift as dust we leave behind.

Is it all so much madness that we polish and clean, wash and sanitize, vacuum and wipe, all to remove the reminders – that dust – that returns to tease, to torment, to torture?

Time now to snap the rag. Release the dust to the wind. Empty the vacuum bag. The vain effort knowing that the dust returns again someday – maybe today – the cycle never ends.

To remove the dust we leave behind.

Linked to Poets and Storytellers United,  Friday Writings #37: Stay Happy and Alive

 

Sand

In darkness it stood before him, a sandglass spilling grey-white grains. Its speed flowed erratically, speeding up, slowing down but never ceasing. The sand trickled, then rushed, to the bottom measuring the years until a moment that he could only guess as “now” when the sand slowed to a tiny stream dropping into the mound below. The ever-changing flow continued.

Just as he knew that the person in a mirror was his doppelganger, he knew that this sand represented a life: his life.

“The carnival fortuneteller was wrong,” he thought, “There is plenty of sand in the upper bulb,” but the flow of sand will never cease until time is satisfied.  

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The sandcastle, built with elaborate spires, parapets, and battlements to ward off imaginary foes, stood upon the sunny beach well away from the coming tides and ocean flows. The effort that seemed like years to complete was finally capped off with a single red flag on the tallest of the towers.

Shadows fell upon the western castle walls, across the keep and onto the slopes of the eastern talus. The first drops of rain moistened the sand and soon the torrential rains continued throughout the night, aided by the Northeastern winds as threads of lightning filled the skies.

By morning no castle remained. No red flag. No tower where damsels live. No battlements for defense. Only a mound to mock the builder’s folly.

The builder fell to his knees in silence, not to mourn, but to build again…

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The prisoner’s hands were clasped to a bar to keep them apart along with bindings on each finger to keep them separated. The guards prodded him until he stood next to a sand-filled cone that opened about chest high. The warden announced, “If you can carry a pound of sand to the scales, you will be set free.”

The prisoner held his hands out as the sand poured through his fingers and he imagined that he would fail his test just as every prisoner failed before him. He smiled to the warden and dropped under the opening to fill his mouth. With bulging cheeks, he quietly walked to the scale to spit out his pound of sand.

 

Linked to Poets and Storytellers United:  Friday Writings #34: Unsavory Topics