I have a slight taste of Steinbeck’s dust in my life… you know, that kind of dust that opens the journey in the Grapes of wrath.

That kind of dust that moves at any of your pace, that flies through the window, under the door, that touches your face.

It is just here, coming in from outside, coming in your life, adding some more dryness to your heart.

It is just here, sent from nowhere, existing to remind you, how powerless you can be when it stops raining, when the wind blows over and bends all that you could have grown, with the strength of patience and with the strength of dream.

And some people here too, have a slight taste of Steinbeck’s dust in their lives. 

But they keep on walking, they keep on driving on the road, knowing there are things, there are people, they just can’t change. They just have to live with that dust. They share it, it makes life easier.

And it seems like there is just nothing you can do, but keep on walking on the road, or driving a damaged car with that ball of anxiety in your stomach.

But as Steinbeck just wrote, once, I mean, I think I read it once “Faith refired…”… Faith refired at that moment when you would think there is no hope to change, no hope that things would move on.

Dust has the texture of disappointment, or if you prefer, disappointment has the texture of dust.

Dust is neither powder nor ashes, just something in the middle.

And as I walk on the journey of life, dust gets in my shoes and clouds of it, rise up from the ground, as high as my heart, as high as my head. And if you try to run, if you try to escape, there is nothing much you can do, for the fastest you will run, the harder will be the ground, the dustier will be your goals.

I have a slight taste of Steinbeck’s dust in my life. Just so, you know, when some kind of senseless sadness is trapped in the moving sands of one’s loneliness. Powerlessness and exodus are paved with dust, _ exodus, as an errand to the unknown:

But what matters is not to wait for Godot under a tree that could give you bad ideas; what matters is to keep on walking on the road, whatever way you choose and wherever you decide to go. And if you are turning around and around endlessly in your life, you will just have to hang on to something, a song, a memory, a color… something that can never turn into invading dust.

It is just here, sent from nowhere, existing to remind you, how powerless you can be when it stops raining,
when the wind blows over and bends
all that you could have grown, with the strength of patience and with the strength of dream.