Most people don’t think a great deal about where dust comes from. Dust is people. Dust is dead skin, although unless you have the opportunity to stare at it under a microscope and see the tiny cells for yourself, this may not be a familiar thought. For most people on the island, dust is just something that turns up; a small, relentless nuisance that adds to the discomfort of daily life.
Dust is you.
It might be tempting, if you live alone, to gather the dust that is made purely from your skin, and hoard it all in a massive jar. You might spend years, carefully collecting the dead bits of yourself that gather, ghostlike in the silent place you call home.
Sweeping with a small paintbrush, slowly cleaning surfaces of your own dead self.
You might wonder after a while exactly how much dust you will make in your lifetime. Will you live for long enough such that there is more dust in the dust jars than there is living skin on your body? You might panic at that point, afraid of what could happen if your dust self becomes bigger than your not-yet-dust self.
You are the dust.
(Art by Kat Delarus, words by Nimue).
The Hopeless Vendetta 