Dust and the Galaxy

Dust covers everything in the small room at the back of the house. It has made a home in this room. All across the floor, along the windowsills, in the dark corners where the eyes can’t see. It is a protective layer from the darkness that the night brings. An empty room, but always occupied. A guest room where the door is always shut but never locked. The window displays the seasons of the year as they come and go. The sunrise shines into the house each morning, but not in the guest room. The moon light makes faded shadows on the dilapidated walls. The stars sprinkle over the house, their ancient light meets the eyes of the house guests.

Shifting eyes and shaking hands point up the stairs and down the hall to the back of the house. No questions asked. The door shouldn’t be locked, they say. Just shut, as it usually is. Sorry about the dust. It’s just the guest room. You can light some candles if the darkness gets too much. Sorry about the darkness. Set an alarm for the morning, the sun doesn’t rise in there. Sorry about that. Yes, just up the stairs and down the hall. The journey isn’t long, but it is dark. Sorry about that. Wait until after dark, they say. Promise it will be worth it in the end. The galaxy opens its heart to you if you look out of the window. It’s really something, I’m sure you’ve heard. You have.

The door does look locked, it even has a heavy key in the keyhole. That’s just an illusion. If you try hard enough, the guest room door will open. And it does. Quite easily. A window, facing out onto acres of empty landscape is the most interesting thing to look at in the whole room. Usually decorated by droplets of rain, but sometimes the water dries up and it leaves the ghost of the rainfall as a memory on the thin glass. Creaky floorboards are to be expected, that’s no surprise. Voices from downstairs sound broken, parts of sentences getting lost on their way up.

You sit on the bed. Neatly made but scratchy sheets. You aren’t here on the promise of a good night’s sleep. The dust flies in the air, making it hard to breathe, but not impossible. When will the night sky appear? Only a matter of time. You wait, sitting on the edge of the bed. The voices stop as the sun dips below the horizon. What was a scattered conversation moments ago is suddenly muted in one second. You stand up, making your way to the window.

It is very dark. You can feel it on your back, up your spine, on the backs on your arms. It’s too late to light the candles. You brace yourself and count under your breath up to three. Then you look up. It’s just the same night sky you have seen all your life, except a little cloudy. You want to go home, but it’s also too late for that. You walk backwards until the mattress hits the backs of your knees and you fall on your back. You lay there for the rest of the night, drifting in and out of sleep. In the early morning the clouds part and the moonlight shines bright into the guest room at the back of the house. Maybe even brighter than it ever has before, but you don’t know that. Sensitive to everything in your light sleep, you open your eyes. You try not to notice the things in the corner of your eyes, they are just distractions. Like the fake key in the fake lock. They are strangers you don’t want to acquaint yourself with.

The window boasts a euphoric moon in the velvet sky. The light is so overwhelming you squint your eyes. It hides the stars behind its spotlight. No galaxy tonight. You aren’t disappointed though, for the moon has lifted you slightly off the ground. In one glance you understand how it has looked over the planet for so long and, knowing all it knows, it still shares its brilliance. It sees everyone and everything. It knows you. And now you know it. Will you show me the galaxy now? You whisper, feeling unworthy. Of course, the moon does not reply. You shake your head, feeling ridiculous. You don’t realise that the moon hears you, not in a human way but it knows what you want. You feel the reply in the way your heart is light, and your eyes see clearly. You feel the reply in the tingling of your feet that makes you want to dance and the tapping of your fingers that makes you want to create.

That night the moon shows you that the galaxy is already yours. It is in you and around you and through you. It is in the way you laugh. It is in the way you sing, the way you dance, the feeling of sand between your toes. It is in the sound of the waves on the shore and the leaves in the wind. The galaxy is in every breath you take and the ones that you don’t, and all of the moments in between.

Morning comes, as it always does. It arrives with a feeling of relief and a jarring beeping from the alarm. It’s time to leave the guest room. Everything is grey when you open your eyes, but not dull. Grey and comforting. It feels like a promise has been fulfilled. Like a stranger becoming a friend.

You want to run out of the house and never look back, but it feels hard to leave these four walls. You walk down the hall and down the stairs. They lead you to the door. I hope the light wasn’t too bright. Sorry about that. I hope you got what you needed. I think I did, you say. The answers weren’t outside of me, you say. No, they reply. They usually aren’t. Sorry about the dust.