The dust settles, persistent as time itself, on everything we leave behind. In its stillness, a story told through layers—a testament to our neglect, our ever-pressing urgency. Each grain a witness to the forgotten moments, the whispered secrets of what could have been.
Here, the dust chronicles lives half-lived, dreams deferred, and voices muted. We tread over them daily, oblivious, refusing to acknowledge the quiet truths they bear. Stories of the mundane, the overlooked, the painfully common.
We dust the surface but never the soul, never the shadows lingering in the corners of our rooms—the ones that remind us of words we should have said, paths untaken, and the ugly truths swept silently under the carpet.
A neglected truth: Dust knows you better than you know yourself. It holds your reflection, fragmented and unflattering.