Masses of small grains, infiltrating and interfering. The sand passes through the window and falls cynically on the table I use as a desk. A filter of dust separates my hand from the paper. A filter of dust separates my eyes from the colors of the flowers. A filter of dust separates my heart from my mind. Every day, I quickly wipe it away with my hand, despairing at my inability to do anything. It is nothing more than tiny beige grains. Small grains against which it is impossible to fight. Small grains that you only notice once they have accumulated.
Thus, everything is beige. Streets, cars, posters, buildings. It is neither yellow nor pink. It is beige. Everything is the same: bland, dull, and devoid of personality. When everything is beige, the gaze falls away, bored. It is no longer resilience; it is abandonment. Fantasy evaporates along with the promise of warm nights, of faces weathered by the sun, of an infinite horizon of dunes. Dreams take flight, carried by these small grains that merely follow the whims of the wind. The dunes shift, leaving me without yesterday’s landmarks. Without fantasies, without benchmarks, I allow myself to be invaded by these small grains. I become beige and opportunistic in my turn.
Zyphera 