Dust On A windowsill

I’m dust on a windowsill

Cowering in the deepest, darkest corners of the edge

Holding on adamantly, begrudgingly, with all my might

Sheltered by cobwebs, dead skin cells,

And sometimes, the ashes of half-burned cigarettes

And I hide underneath them

Anxious and alone

I’m dust on a windowsill

The world outside passes me by

The birds, the playgrounds, the shimmering tall buildings

The green grass on the other side

And I feel like I could join them

But do I even belong?

I’m dust on a windowsill

Observing the slow rusting of steel

Like a scientist, analysing, overthinking,

Arriving at conclusions in my head

But they are all incomplete and scattered

Like me

I’m dust on a windowsill

Trembling at the thought of

A gust of wind

But also yearning for it

A battle of contradiction

The realisation that there is no everlasting peace

For me

I’m dust on a windowsill

And one of these days I’ll be gone

To become one with the existence outside

To clear the space for the ones arriving after me

With the same anxieties, contradictions, and realisations

Perhaps there is no grander purpose,

Perhaps there is no meaning to it all

Perhaps all that matters is

Nothing matters at all

But until then,

I’ll stay as dust on this windowsill

Offering myself as home to these ants and spiders

As they infiltrate my head

Eating away at whatever sanity is still left

I guess they’d be disappointed…

The kind of writing that shows up uninvited, barefoot, at 3 a.m.