Dissatisfaction and disdain rest atop nearly all the facts and facets of my existence, like a fine layer of dust covering over something dormant. Something settled and still. Something stagnant and unmoving. Something that came to rest and then never left.
Dust is full of dead things, but it is also made of stars. The molecules of a supernova’s splendor cascading down across the sky on wafts of otherworldly light, and flecked into the nebulous clay of who we are. Our dust is made of living; not only of what once was but also what still is; a rife and teeming ecosystem. “It is this ‘dust’ that makes your corporeal self”, says J.M. Miro, “It is in you and through you, and it leaves its traces wherever and whenever you use your talent.” The shed skin of shifting cells side by side with the pieces and particles of every living thing embedded in and upon the use of your unique gift. “The body of a talent”, Miro goes on to say, “is a map of their dust”; a map of their dissatisfaction and decay, a map of regeneration and change.
Miro explains that we “waste all this time dreaming of where [we] came from, cause [we] know no one comes from nothing”, and we hope there might be a hidden explanation for everything in the hindsight of our regret. We tell ourselves, Miro says, that “if [we] only knew, then maybe [we] could see a reason for how [we] got to be the way [we] are”, and why our lives look the way they do. “But there isn’t any reason,” Miro concludes, “not really”. Shit happens as the sacred proverb goes. The nature of reality is absolute, but it is also inherently arbitrary and absurd.
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