It's the mornings that terrify me the most; the process of waking up. At night I scratch. I toss and turn. I dream and, in a half-conscious state, the clarity of my thoughts makes me want to bellow and scream.
To wake and reconcile oneself with another day; another day of avoiding the truths that, when engulfed in the black of night, are exposed all too well.
My days are all about avoiding the truth.
I wake - a mysterious, tenuous thing, this daily becoming - but I keep my eyes closed. I curl my body into a ball. I press my hands between my knees: ugly red fingered impressions on bed-warm flesh. I breathe, face-down, into the pillow and the rudeness of being properly conscious again makes me sneeze repeatedly so that when I look at myself in the bathroom mirror, I look like I've been crying for years.
Or, perhaps, it's just an allergy.
The house is full of dust. Dust on the bookshelves and windowsills, the TV screen and blinds. On the wooden arms and legs of furniture and in the creases of fabric and cloth. Dust on the base of the upright reading lamp, on the faded, pleated lampshades and the electric fire's plastic coal: on the tops of the wall sockets and framed pictures and prints. Corners and crevices, ornaments, appliances. Not only on horizontal surfaces; it clings vertically too; to the sides of wardrobes and the chest of drawers, the desk, the filing cabinet, walls and doors.
When the low winter sun cuts its way into the house, the truth is unavoidable; the atmosphere inside is heavy with dust - endlessly suspended. Moving minutely, slightly, in the cold white light. I breathe it in. I tread it into the carpet. I feel it settling on my skin like snow or a wet mist.
Dust is dead, but it sticks. Like the ashes of a cremated body, it is slightly greasy. The dust in the house sticks to me as I sit and wait. It blocks my pores and clogs my mouth. It dulls my hair and gathers under my nails. It greys my skin and turns the whites of my eyes yellow.
Sometimes, I use the sleeve of my pullover to wipe away the dust. Sometimes, I use a damp cloth. I even have a feather duster (albeit synthetic). I disturb the dust, but I am never rid of it. I dislodge it and displace it, but the minute I turn my back it encroaches once more. Dust on every surface. Dust on the floor. Dust on every object I've ever owned. Dust on every object in the house; not just my belongings, but on those of others who were here and then left.
I am the custodian of dust.
