jakarta

is how everywhere you go you see people trying to make a living, people trying to live and you look around them and all you see is death. there, an empty plastic garuda peanuts wrapper glazed in rain water like a bright yellow accidental donut, a broken bicycle wheel with the tyre still on it though a section is peeling off like a band-aid on its second day, the rain’s made the black rubber shine like a leather patch on your elbow—right on the sharp angle where someone had tried to make a square out of the shiny circle of the wheel it looks exactly like that, then there is always the puddles of water like temporary lakes that reflect the big city lights like a prostitute’s polished nails and the bigger one that will stand the test of time and the evening’s heat and greet tomorrow’s sun like the mirror in your bathroom. death. death. death. and life inside and between the spaces inside and around the letters. as i walked on i kept thinking, “someone should give these people a break,” then i saw them, two blind men swinging their white canes over me on the transjakarta ramp. they walked closely together, as if happy for the audio support when the canes hit the metal railings and for the jolt that must run up their arms when the canes hit each other in mid-air. and then i knew, there will be no break in the cruel play of life for these people.

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