It is a piece I wrote more than two months ago. I forgot it until I “re-discovered” it while sorting things out in my computer. It goes like this:
Foreign tourists are taking photos of traffic jams of Vietnam. I am standing in the middle of the mass of hundreds people stuck in those traffic jams. Will I be in the photos that they take back to their homes around the world? Probably yes. And what? I wonder.
It seems to me that I love the clanking, honking, all the sounds of a market and its smell. It reminds me of the old days when I was small. My mother would ride me to the local market, and I would sit on a small chair attached to the bicycle. The road was twisty and bumpy, and muddy after the rain. Everything may come flooding back to me with a whiff of air in a market.
I think about Bruno Schulz. I try to make up what he might think while he was coming back to the ghetto with a loaf of bread in his hands, and how he was shot by a German Nazi. He was fifty years old at the time. And of course he had not known that he would die at the end of the day. I am half of his age. What will befall me when I am fifty? I do not know, and will never know.
I lie on the floor, seeing the dim light through the fernery curtain. I suppose that it is raining outside.