Young Writers Society

The Classic Rock Junkie Strikes Back: Dust

The sultry hum of Janis flitters from the player near the wall, to me, sitting at my desk looking out the wide window to the street.

They say the music muse is dead, that it dead with Cobain, Mercury, and Morrison. That the sounds now are dust replicas of sparkling Taj Mahals. But I still see fleeting moments, like a light bulb spark at the end of things.

I am dying – have been dying since the day I was born. Every minute, every second a cell dies, and every time that happens, a piece of the whole of me breaks off and becomes something else it a little petit mort.

And the world is dying around me: thoughts are dying, nature is fading away, the black marauder Death is conquering the petals of earth almost faster than they bloom.

But Death does not stop for me, not like it did for reclusive Emily. No the carnage in the snow passes, snow globs flying everywhere.

Cariño, the pages say, trust in your instincts.

My instincts tell me, to turn my face away fro the light for it will only burn but my heart tells me you’ve been burned before what’s another.

But reaching for the light and basking in it, without being fried is another thing.

I am the Separate Rose, and I wait fro the day when my petals will die and fall to the sweet all-encompassing earth.

When we become dust, as we all must, all that is left behind is how we’ve left other people.