The Light Teaches Dust

Afternoon slants through the window, and we see what was always falling— particles of us, of time itself, suspended in gold that wasn't there a moment before.

The dust doesn't mind that it's invisible without the sun. It spirals anyway, purposeful, carving paths through air we thought was empty.

I've watched this a thousand mornings and never learned its name. The way it catches and turns, the way light makes it matter— a small dance no one choreographed.

If I could teach you to see this way: the forgotten things as infinite, the floating particles as teachers, then you'd understand why I'm always stopping mid-sentence to watch.