Phra Khanong

I got into this really solemn, sad place at the end of the derive in the wet market. Wet markets are the remaining soul of cities like Bangkok.

I gave a coin to a beggar.
And for lack of a coin a bill to a monk. Somehow, mildly regreting the unconscious discrimination in hindsight.

A little thai girl walked right down that convergence of light and silence.

Boy on a bike with plastic food on both ends of the manibela.

A man grabbing dark mud underneath his table

Cigarette butts

Children watching their phones while walking

Old men playing billiards inside
Outside little girls playing house over vacant steel tables

In Bangkok, the soul of the city is in its wet markets. The conscience of its people wrapped inside plastic bags set on the table where buyers grab what they need and hand over their bhat to vendors they exchange pleasantries with.

Here is where Bangkok is so much so I debated whether to leave it. For how could I see Bangkok outside my reflection on an eye of a fish.

Phra Khanong

I dropped a bill inside the brass bowl of a Buddhist nun in purple garb and understood that the soul of the city is in this wet market. The conscience of its people red spicy and aromatic wrapped inside plastic bags set on the table where old men and women line up to grab what they need, exchanging pleasantries, exchanging bhats. Sometimes a young boy hangs them on the handles of his bicycle.

The heart of the city beats in its little daughters, two of them walking ever trustfully as they watch some reels on their phones, while another plays house over vacant steel tables, acting like a mother berating her two daughters. This city's life force flows in the veins of billiard tables, where old men begin their day with beers as they may have done their night.

The spirit of this city descends in the shape of a pigeon strutting unabashedly beside my feet. Sometimes it shapshifts into the form of an almost silent motorcycle, whizzing an inch away from my belly, startling the hell out of me. But the soul of this city is barely breathing. I could see its ribs move on the rotting facade of closed shops, hear it wheezing from behind their walls. Whatever's left of this city, whatever cigarette butts, lie underneath this man's table. He crawls under it, grabs the dark slime that has clogged his sewer, and throws it on the concrete.

This city knows how to hide its scars, they're barely seen. Buy the light is always honest, always true. And it brought me at this interstection where light plays house with silence and where another girl, one with long black hair, emerged out of nowhere and walked in between this city's shadows.

The soul of the city is in this wet market. The conscience of its people red spicy and aromatic wrapped inside plastic bags set on the table where old men and women line up to grab what they need, exchanging pleasantries, exchanging bhats. Sometimes a young boy hangs them on the handles of his bicycle.

The heart of the city beats in its little daughters, two of them walking ever trustfully as they watch some reels on their phones. Another plays house over vacant steel tables, acting like a mother berating her two daughters. This city's life force flows in the veins of billiard tables. Old men begin their day here with beers.

The spirit of this city descends in the shape of a pigeon strutting unabashedly beside my feet. Sometimes it shape shifts into the form of an almost silent motorcycle, whizzing an inch away from my belly, startling the hell out of me. But the soul of this city is barely breathing. I could see its ribs move on the rotting facade of closed shops, hear it wheezing from behind their walls. Whatever's left of this city, whatever cigarette butts, lie underneath this man's table. He crawls under it, grabs the dark slime that has clogged his sewer, and throws it on the concrete.

This city knows how to hide its scars, they're barely seen. But the light is always honest, always true. At this intersection where light plays house with silence, a child, one with long black hair, emerged out of nowhere and walked in between this city's shadows. I dropped a bill inside the brass bowl of a Buddhist nun in purple garb only to return later to take her photograph.