Dust
A reply to this: http://mastuvu.typepad.com/monuments/2005/03/dust.html Home is where the heart is, they say. I never left home. Maybe my heart is stacked somewhere on the worn wooden shelves of the public library, where I work. Neatly classified under "medical". I was born here and when my time will end, I know it will be here. I don’t care much about travelling or moving to a big city, like so many young people do now. I prefer a quiet life of candlelight evenings and walks along the coastline. After a storm you can find treasures there. Silver spoons with imprints of a foreign ship’s name, bones of seagulls tied up in seaweed looking like precious jewellery. And once in a while a bottle. Intact. When I long for something more, I have my books. They are my children, my lovers, my companions on cold nights. Sometimes I read them tenderly, my fingers caressing the spine while my eyes gaze into an endless new world. Sometimes I devour them urgently, driven by a hopeless need...