A mote of dust

The silence is suffocating as swallowing sand to pass the time. The air aggressively cupping my ears, they feel fat with the weight of it.

Atrophic mind, aches to the bone, a vein visibly throbs beneath the sallow pellicle, lizard green. The metronomic motion hypnotic with promise.

There’s fear in a mote of dust, that its plummet would shatter the quietude, as a building collapse and the rageful cloud that ensues.

There is also hope, that such a sound would sever the seductive somnolence; like an arm waiting for a carving, or the harm waiting for a scarring.

Sleep takes me. I’ll awaken in some unknown future, in the same familiar moment, coughing up time, that burns my eyes, and clouds my mind.

art: by Zao Wou-Ki

*2021.09.15.18.50