A Dust reflects (Semi-Freewriting).

The Eye creeping down from up high is haunted.

Bare from lid it hangs from a rootless chord,
a motionless pendulum,
a dead-weight, a relic of the past;
one that Time punished in the cruelest form of retribution,
an inescapable sentence that only Time can impose.

Aware but feckless all the same,
without a choice it stares.

I sometimes lie beneath it to keep it company
unbeknownst if it perceives,
though I can tell it sees.

The big, round pupil
like a black hole
trapped at the bottoms of a spherical, liquid dome
expands in darkness, contracts in light.
The sensors are intact.
The Eye is not blind,
but does it hold any memory?

I look at the Eye,
I look at my distorted idolon.
Just a habitual Nothing reflecting on a dying Everything.
How rich!
All ways are down when you're hanging from a chord.
All ways are up when you're lying on your back.

I only want to know Eye:

Did you choose to be left out of choices?
Was it worth it?

We take cover in and from the Nothing that lasts Forever.
Not even Time itself, for it's a beast that inadvertently is bound to
crumble underneath its own weight.
You must have been witnessing this bittersweet demise
as you rode along with the millenia.

So,
If I'm right,
For your own sake
I can only hope
That I'm right.

Rest in peace.

Yours Truly,
Speck of Dust.