The Dust

The dust. The dust lay thickly across the shelf. A snowfall of epic proportions across the contours of the shelf, taking on glacial properties. I trace my finger through the dust. It throws up fairies, dancing in the glinting light. An almost imperceptible breeze blowing them to their new kingdom.

They weave and dance through the air, like Morris dancers at a midsummer festival. They seem frivolous and wanton. Scarcely visible, yet taking all my attention. Dancing in the summer light, bedecked in a golden haze they move to an invisible beat.

I sit and watch, transfixed as they cross my vision. One out of the beam of light, I can no longer see them as they carry on their journey to some new crevice in the room. The deep wooden veneers adding a sense of regal belonging to this forgotten room. A room that people, and perhaps time, has forgotten about. The dust free to accumulate, gather in huge groups and these groups only to be separated by my trailing finger.

My finger, the power to tear kingdoms apart. To send these fairies fleeing for their life. The wanton destruction my finger brings as it traces its own line through the contours of the land. Creating huge rifts and new valleys as it meanders along the shelves.

The world a mere toy at my fingertips.

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