Beneath the rain, when the pavement turns into a mirror and the tangled wires slice across the sky, I feel the city hum in a voice that is more vibration than sound. I walk through towers that look like hollow ghosts, some unfinished, others so worn out they almost collapse under their own memory. I cannot help but imagine the hands that once placed each brick with patience, the dreams that were poured into the foundations with certainty, the hope that these walls would mean something more than mere shelter. Now they stand as scenery we glance past without thought, stripped of the intention that once gave them life. The routine of passing by has made them invisible, yet when I stop to look closely, I realize that invisibility is the loudest noise they carry.
Crossing a street where a glass building rises next to a crumbling house, I notice how the past and the future never really blend, they just collide in silence. The contrast asks me to listen harder. In those moments The Daily Mail comes to mind like a skeptical pulse, a reminder of what gets buried and ignored, and Freak on a Leash lingers as a knot in my chest, that sense of pressure that never fully releases. These songs are not playing, yet they frame the way I see these structures. They set the rhythm of the photographs I take, capturing a tension that no one around me seems to hear. Every cable, every shadow, every unfinished wall feels like a verse of something that once wanted to be sung but ended up trapped in its own weight.
Dreaming about the origin of these buildings, I picture architects with imperfect sketches, workers carrying bread in their pockets while lifting concrete under the sun, families saving coins to move into a place they believed would give them a future. I try to connect with that raw energy, to remember that these walls are more than surfaces for posters and graffiti. Behind the decay there are human decisions, human mistakes, human promises. And yet time has reduced all of this to shells that most people only acknowledge as obstacles. When I raise my camera, it is not beauty that I search for but rather traces of human presence that refuse to vanish entirely. It feels like trying to record a forgotten chorus, like salvaging fragments of a melody from the ruins of silence.
Every photo I take becomes a conversation I was not meant to overhear. The buildings do not speak in words but in textures, stains, fractures, and the persistence of standing when they could easily collapse. I sense in them a resistance that mirrors my own desire to hold on to things that matter even when the world insists on moving past them. Photographing these structures is my way of acknowledging that memory is fragile, that we collectively choose what to remember and what to erase, often without realizing it. Perhaps these pictures are my confession, my way of saying I am not ready to forget just yet. I do not know if anyone else feels the same weight when walking these streets, but I suspect the city speaks louder than we allow ourselves to admit.
Finally I accept that my photographs are not solutions and not monuments. They are more like letters sent without addresses, small attempts to capture what silence tries to swallow. I prefer honesty to perfection, and so I leave in the cracks, the water stains, the stray wires that divide the sky. Within these imperfections, I discover the soundtrack I had been searching for. The Daily Mail guides me to uncomfortable questions about what is lost and why, and Freak on a Leash holds me in the uneasy tension of desire and frustration. Together they accompany me as I walk through streets that others hurry across. If someone ever looks at my photographs, I hope they sense that behind every forgotten building there was once a reason to exist. And if they do not, at least they will know that I tried to listen before the silence became absolute.
