Ballroom

I smile at the flecks of dust dancing through the air in my living room, the orange beams of sunset casting a wonderful back light effect through the picture window.

I think about the pieces of dust, all little universes in their own mind, feckless to any sound of fate. I exhale harshly, watching the current of air to change the beat they danced to. How would I get rid of all these dusts? I could open the window and allow them to drift collectively through the screen, bidding a farewell to our living room ball.

I don't want to end the party, they dance and it really makes me smile. I can feel my smile, and it's nothing like I remember ever in my life. I am in awe, and almost jealous of the dust. I look outside the window, and I examine ant-like figurines wrestle their way through each other, all with their goal or ambition in their mind. The dust dance around each other, and they don't ever try to avoid the common hello.

I sigh, my smile still flickering beneath my usual sense of oneness. I could say hello to people down there, but why would I? None of them would want to dance, and none of them would want to laugh. I am the jester of my world, and it's because of that I keep to my own show of dancing dust.

They float this way and that way. Start to sing and they follow your voice. It's the wave of the ballroom, They are moving in form, and almost in pattern if I look long enough. I reach out to touch them, and they gracefully swoop in and out of my grasp, spinning away in a cheer I cannot hear.

It would be nice, to float so eloquently through the air, without even a second's thought about what the world around them is. There would be nothing to worry about, as explosions and fires only send them to dance somewhere else.

A scream, screech and boom rumble outside, and I see the ants scatter away from a rising cloud of black. They're all moving this way and that, trying to keep out of each other's way, and trying to escape the situation in which they do not want involvement.

We may as well be a speck of dust the way no one stopped to help.


Word count: 394