111 words (a Nelson)
I don’t have a single unified, uniform identity. I’m not from just one place or one time or one people. I am the leavings of the earth, and the ends of people and animals and plants. I am the same as I was when dinosaurs roamed the planet, and I am completely different. I am natural and man-made, radioactive and quintessential.
I swirl, I scatter, I blind, I shimmer. I rise above and obscure. I dirty.
I am a gigantic cloud and a miniscule mote. A speck of me in your eye and you are incapacitated. A whoosh of me at your face and your lungs cannot cope.
I am Dust.
Day 43: Stream of consciousness of an author with writer’s block