Before the time of loathing, I remember the deep red satin sheets which draped the clustered market stalls. This particular place used to hold the greatest pleasures. Refractions of piercing white diamonds were sold here, the foreign kind that reek of pleasure and self entitlement, still manage to hold their presence in this naked earth. Not so long ago now I watched the purchasing of these forgotten treasures. Piles of the rarest medicine and the most outrageous watches drenched the tables of the sellers. They would grin ear to ear with the presence of their products. for these goods is now that time is no longer counted. Broad men, who were drenched head to toe with cologne were the most common customers. Their dark cloaks filled with coins milled in and out the . Ambling children fattened by the decadence of love and food, whose singular fear was fictional followed their guardians through the of which was the selling.
The selling started at nine and finished roughly around five, I knew this because Mother would be hanging up the washing in our backyard. Her delicate fingers carefully placing the clothes in swift movements, in time with the motion of her chestnut hair. Humming to herself she would complete her work, intertwined with the constant resonance of the market. I miss those sort of sounds, the ones that are never far gone, continuing to trigger the brain in a form of comfort. Being apart of the Allein limits sound. I took german when I was 10 and
Its my 46 circuit presently. This area is roughly 26 hours away from the checkpoint. It has taken me 12088800 minutes it still remains the same.
Above, the darkened sky holds dusty pheasants, their long dark tails control the moving clouds which weep exhaustion. The terrain below encases my bare feet. My movements create imprints in the baked earth. 1, 2, 3 I count like a rhythm. Counting lets me focus on containing to walk. I see the plague of unworthy power that has been grasped, I see the pettiness, I see the wastefulness, I see how lonely life is now. The shrapnel of unsuccessful aims and dreams coat the rugged terrain. Back then everything no matter how politically influenced and forcefully imposed on us had some sort of purpose. I grip the yellow tattered band highly strung around my waist. The only visual connection to the past. Materialistic memories of belongings and ownership of not just things but yourself.