The Road to the Honest World

After being thrashed and burnt at the stake;

By nocturnal witches in spaghetti straps with gravy stains

He walked,

 Breathing in golden and breathing out black,

On the road to the honest world.

CNV00032

© PinkyBinks

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Land of the Smell of Sheep

Inside the Queens Head

Lost Post: Prayer for Myanmar

Lost Post: Boys and Guns

Moments of Days in Holland

Lost Post: That Night in Yangon

Lost Post: There/Gone/Past

Reflections on Existence, Whatever That Is

I am unaware if this is how it starts, but if my memory serves me right, I’ll begin.

People intertwine with us, as humans, they become part of who we are. Friends and lovers. We choose things together and i agreed to tour a Bombay slum.

These loved ones, with whom i travelled take the train, then are briefed as we walk across that bridge into the darkest despair. Almost a symbol for the depression.

The bridge.

That woman with the child, screeching in her burka for rupees, almost harmonizing with his cry.

In and out of holes really. Inhabited holes for whatever reason. Holes you wouldn’t want to spend ten minutes in, let alone a lifetime. An existence without space, without air, without choice.

Slaves.

Faces you want to love and care for, like lovers or like friends, but the best you can do is just smile then walk away;

or cry.

Eyes i still see when reflecting my existence, whatever that is.

Lost Post: Nuns and Showgirls