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Dreams are what you wake up from.

14 years of Livejournalling, and hopefully, more to come.

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:: Specks ::

:: Specks ::

Somehow, no matter how many times I try to wipe off the layer of dust
From my table, it continues to gather. No, the dust does not annoy me;
In fact, it quietly gathers, as particle pile onto particle, and then slowly
Form unnoticed specks of nothingness. Until I unthinkingly wipe my hand
Across the surface and accumulate it all. Sometimes, I raise the curtains,
Inhale, and give a deep blow, initiating the start of a mini dust storm.
A dust storm that bothers no one, really. But they exist, surely.
Even when the door to my room is perpetually closed, and the room
Is airconditioned most of the time, they find their way. Onto the tables,
Onto the floor. Onto any surface that their can find. Where do they
Come from? Perhaps they come from me.


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i like how your metaphor of the dust could mean so many things. to me, dust represents some form of memories; something that never changes though the surroundings do. awesome piece, w!


sometimes, though, i love how these pesky lil creatures enjoy a dance or two when a ray of light shines through 'em.

and when i reach out my hand to grab hold of them, they...

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