I sit in a place where the dust gathers around me.
However poetic it may sound, it’s a solid truth. While I sit here quietly, writing down my thoughts, the dust settles around me, as if it were embracing me; outside the dust gather in heaps.
I should probably mention, this is because our home is undergoing renovation. Again.
However weird it may sound, one of the things I would proudly share about myself is that I grew up with construction as a normal part of life. Saying this, would prompt me to imply that I am used to destruction as well.
To build and to destroy, is a harmony that I am familiar with, and both are close to my heart.
Nothing is ever permanent in this home, in this life. That was what my childhood taught me; I may not have understood it then, but I do now. As days pass, I find that it’s oddly comforting and melancholic to think about.
I’ve lived in this home ever since I could remember, and while it would give me a sense of permanence, it never will be permanent. Times change, seasons change, and our home changes as well. People come, people go, and I am still here, but that will change too, over time.
Over the years, I’ve seen my home transform, and it’s kind of looking at a mirror, and seeing my own transformation. See, you’ve grown comfortable in it all your life, but there will always be something you need to break down, in order for you build on top of it—to change it, hopefully for the better. A house will always be full of people, but slowly, they leave. I don’t know if I can say the same about myself— I don’t even understand what I’m trying to say anymore.
Truthfully, I don’t even know why I’m writing this.
The dust has gone to my head, it seems.
Or maybe I’m just bored.
Either way, the dust still gathers, and I write anyways.