The Monday Market
This place has for itself, a thing called the Monday market. It begins where the rail tracks and the days of the many people traveling on them end. It looks like a swamp, illuminated,a swamp of people and goods. You have to wade in to make sense of this chaos. The socks are shoved into your face and then the scrubbers and then the watches they don't even stop with the cheap jewelry and then the pesticides (they kill rats and bugs together). It goes brushing you away, the guys stand with the stuff they sell around their neck, they are like posts, they wont move, you flow around them and around you flows the noise and flow the faces you wished you could see and those you are glad you did not. Behind you is the frustrated whirr of a scooter stuck in the melange, honking the life out of it's horn, one of the very few instances when you blissfully ignore a request to move your presence. The faces are tired and their hair is unkempt, their lips bitten and full of blood clots, their sandals struggling to keep themselves together, their eyes reflecting the blank flow,blank and colourful,blank and vibrant,blank and like a monday morning.