In this particular spot, in one of Siem Reap’s many back alleys, chaos and tranquility is how it’s always been. She continually sits here amongst it, just being.
The walls that grew up here when she first came have overtime been peppered by bullets or destroyed by shells and risen up again. At other times they’ve been covered over, repainted, stripped and redone year after year. The walls have also succumbed to the lean of lovers enjoying a late night tryst. And the flick of the ends of a whip used to punish a thief.
The concrete path in front of her feet, that used to be dirt, has seen an uncountable number of people passing by. Some have been running in terror for their lives, some have had their feet incased in army boots. Some have simply been strolling along, chatting and laughing as they pass her by. Others have leapt and created circles in the form of a dance, or chased after each other as children with glee.
Now the walls around her are full of life, flowers, art, signs and stains. There are no bullet holes and the walls now echo the sounds of different feet. Now the echoes are the clip clopping of high heels, a scuffing of sneakers or the continuous flop, flop of sandals and thongs.
The sun peeps down on her from in between the walls and new structures that have suddenly appeared. At other times it’s the rain that comes down and forms a rivulet at her feet. It’s quite normal that she becomes covered in dust; the warm breeze blows it up the alleyway, along the path where she sits.
She recognizes the changes over the seasons and over the years. The passing feet now stop and take photos of her, she does not mind, but doesn’t really understand why, after all she’s just a rusty old chair . . . sitting in a back alley in Siem Reap where chaos and tranquility have always been.
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