Breathing Dust

I wonder if the dust that falls on our skin while idle has anything in common with the skin cells that currently reside there. Are they like ancestors or old friends, who for a brief moment before we stir get to mingle with the younger generation, passing on knowledge of the world beyond the organism they have always been a part of. Or are they strangers, unable to communicate, unable to truly take part in or influence the miracle of rapid reproduction and decay that inevitably occurs there. Or are they like ghosts, dreadful premonitions of the fate that is to befall the still healthy cells, a portent of the random destruction that can be caused by a careless scratch, the fallout that follows dehydration, or the Hiroshima of excessive exposure to the sun.
Maybe the truth is that the sum of our unthinking, unfeeling parts is an unthinking, unfeeling whole that was somehow chosen to be the bearer of a soul, and therefore, matters.

After more than a year of silence, my insights manage to be only skin deep. Hmmm...