dust

Dust is an elusive contamination.  It's sensitive to the slightest push of air and hides in its micro-concealment, riding upon light waves of molecular turbulence.  Spaced inconspicuously, it travels in herds, invisible to the limited scope of our mundane, omnipotent perspective.

Our eyes attempt to see everything all at once, to take in as much as possible in as little time as we hardly care to spare.  Like the snap of a photograph that goes unprocessed.  The result is, we miss too much detail, and so much of the scene passes unnoticed.  Our arrogance and desensitization to the common is what dust relies on for its survival.

If all the dust that occupies our transparent space were to condense and fall at once, we would have a serious problem.  We would be covered with filth.  Our machines would clog and breakdown.  Our furniture would be raped of its polished refinement.  It would block our airways, our oxygen, and we would choke.

We're surrounded by this filth.  Floating in it.  Breathing it.  Coughing it up in thick spit and dying from it.

This dust is our own skin.  The reproductive cells of vegetation trapped in their half-state.  It's random dirt.  All manners of radiation.  Fall out.  Gasoline conversions, fumes, and the general decomposition of an oblivious world that believes itself to be immortal.  Here tomorrow and the next.  Invincible, eternal, and forever.  Though the evidence indicating otherwise surrounds it at all times.

Filth is our default.  We all spring from the rot which has been consumed, digested, and reconstructed.  We're a collaboration of the dead; recycled, mixed, and reformed into a new organism designed to ultimately fail and return to the decomposed, deconstructed state from which it came.