The Dust Did Roar

A Collection of Poetry and Essays on Science, Love, and Cheese

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  • Save the Last Dance

    I’m a very anxious person.

    Worrying about what other people think of me, or rather what I think other people think of me, takes up far more of my life than I would like to admit. I once went a whole year without using my locker at school because it happened to be located just outside the girls change-room and I was terrified everyone would think I was a pervert.

    But there is one aspect of my life that has somehow become immune to these constant thoughts of worry.

    Dance.

    Now, I would hardly call myself a great dancer. Even a good dancer would be a stretch. But unashamed and confident? Most certainly.

    I didn’t start out this way, of course. The first time I went to a club, I had a mini panic attack while walking home convinced that every single person on that packed dancefloor could see how terrible I was.

    But I kept doing it even though I was constantly aware that I had no idea what I was doing and that there was always someone else on the dance floor who clearly did know and was better than me.

    At some point, I can’t exactly remember when, I began to think about why I kept dancing despite the constant fear of being judged.

    I came to the conclusion that even with all the social pressure I felt and the worry that I would do the wrong thing, dancing actually made me feel good.

    Becoming one with the beat, throwing my head back, mouthing the few lyrics that I actually knew.

    These were small moments I no longer felt that dark presence that always appears whenever I am at my lowest.

    So I finally told myself “Fuck it, who cares if others think that I’m a freak with zero coordination? I’m going to have a good time with or without their perceived approval.”


    The irony of this change in attitude only became apparent several years after this moment when I was attending a friend’s wedding. I had danced for hours with friends and strangers alike, soaked with sweat, and feeling the sweet siren song of my hotel bed.

    As I was saying my goodbyes to the bride and groom, they both thanked me profusely for the all the fun and ‘gees’ that I had brought to the wedding. My commitment to having fun and being unashamed to share it with those around me had made their special day just a little bit more special.

    By deciding that I didn’t care if I pleased others or not, I ended up getting exactly what I wanted all along.

    So like Chappell Roan said, I’m gonna keep on dancing.

    “Pink Pony Club” by Chappell Roan

  • Echo

    Who will sing her to sleep,
when all the candles are burned,
when all the winds have died?

Eons after the choir is silent,
does not their chorus echo,
in the dark and in the deep?

Through crumbled halls,
and broken rings,
the sound still stalks.

From one tiny corner,
long past its end,
the song still calls.

A billion souls and a billion more,
did labour and bare,
not knowing their part.

The fullness of Creation,
the greatest play of all,
to show at last,
the dust did roar.

    Being proud of my work is not something that comes easy to me. But when I completed the above poem, I confess that I did manage to feel a sense of creative joy, particularly spurred by the last line. I remember googling the words convinced that I had read it somewhere before and was merely regurgitating it unconsciously. When I couldn’t find anything remotely similar, I had to come to terms with the fact that I had created something original and that I liked it.

    The poem ponders whether there will be any sign that of humanity ever existed when the universe reaches its inevitable heat death and if there is even meaning to the various works of humans when a cold and silent universe is all we can ever expect to survive. I was inspired the famous painting of Alan Lee that depicts the fellowship of the ring passing through the long abandoned great halls of the dwarf kingdom Moria. I tried to imagine travellers in the far future walking through the ruins of humanity and what they would think of the results of all our toils.

    The Eastern Arches by Alan Lee

  • Hello All!

    Hope that you will join me on this journey, sharing my poetry both old and new, as well as some essays that already have some great ideas for. Happy scrolling!