The Rebellion of Dust
Scroll XCVI
The Rebellion of Dust
What do you think the dust is? Ashes? Decay? Waste?
It is memory. It is evidence. It is witness.
They built monuments atop the bones of children. They chanted blessings while spilling the blood of thinkers. They offered peace to the gods while suffocating the questions of the curious.
But dust was there. Beneath robes. Beneath altars. Beneath oaths.
And now, the dust rebels. Not with violence— but with truth. Not with fire— but with clarity.
The rebellion of dust is not loud. It is persistent. It rises in lungs. In dreams. In the discomfort of those who inherit unjust thrones. In the fatigue of those who were told to forgive what was never repented.
It whispers through allergic sneezes and the sickness in sacred rooms. It corrodes golden things. It clogs the mouth of the liar.
Dust is not harmless. Dust is not passive. Dust is not dead.
It is the soil remembering its first purpose: to house the breath of life. Not chains. Not graves. Not silence.
We were made from dust. And dust has begun to rebel. Against everything we were told to kneel before. Even if we are called rebels with it.
Let them polish their temples. Let them anoint their titles. Let them deny what their ancestors buried.
But the dust will rise— and when it does, it will not ask permission.
"You silenced the living. But the dust remembers."
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