Tittle Tattle

Poverty tourists, self help volunteers, roof tops filled with shadows and rising sounds of clumps, cranks, chatter, low hummms, loud beeps. The night air is thick with fragments of indiscernible communication, conversations. A mosaic of lives of peoples, of cultures, of imported domesticated animals ready for milking, breeding, eating. Areas demarcated by the howls and rough barks of street dogs and overseen by the soaring diving eagles of the rubbish. A city full of happenings. Lives hidden, exposed, believed, seen, pondered, forgotton. A moment in a blink, and our time in an eternity. Beep, brroooom, the rick a tick tang bang of the rickshaw pullers. Bare feet soundlessly pounding the wet muddy concrete. A cough, a Hack, an engine starting. Flick, tap, flick tap, patterns, repetition, routine. A flutter of a fly, sounds louder, until it passes like a speck of concrete hitting a tin. It drops to the worn white sheets to flitter into nothingness, while the light strip burns on. Reflections of a day in a life of a billion. Present distracting from the movements before. But the momentum is continuous.

Where is this leading to? Where am I? Returning to the thoughts forgotten, past, present. Possibilities. Decisions, options and choices, experiences leading to an eventuality soon to be history. Inhalation. Long deep exposed exhale. Silent sigh. Visible to no witness. External questions stored, external questions unheard. Internal conundrum. Tittile tattle, rattle rattle.