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.