Dust


Some people will make history-
I will bury it.
Already, all I am becoming is a layer of passivity.
My sole purpose to conceal action and accomplishment.
My skin is flaking,
These dead skins cells becoming my sole contribution in life;
My very constitution turning to the dust that drifts over cartons in attics.
There are boxes with old letters,
that describe love so intense it can be felt across time.
This love,
Love that survived war,
Will not survive being obscured by my useless veil.
And then there are medals,
Commemorating magnificent bravery.
There are awards,
Celebrating wisdom I can only pretend to possess.
All that beauty and inspiration,
These records of brilliance.
All will be thrust into ambiguity by my layer of filth.
Shifting into some vague echo of the past.
Destined to be ignored,
For what is dusty is old and neglected.
And therefore obsolete.
Useless to these minds of the future.
History favors the bold,
The active.
The meek and the timid?
All we are favored by are vacuums.
The only future I have afforded myself is the one where I dissolve.
I’ve worried and stressed myself into ineffectuality.
Worn myself down with inaction until all I am is a mess to be cleaned.
All I am good for is being swept away-
So we can see the beautiful gifts of those who dared to try.
Those who worked hard-
And changed the world.

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