Bangkok, 05.02.2023 — REALITIES
In the dim alleys of Bangkok, where fragile structures lean into narrow paths of shadow and light, a young boy steps quietly into view. He stands still, watching me with a calm that feels older than his years. Our eyes meet — just long enough for two separate lives to briefly acknowledge one another.
And the question rises:
Who would I be if my story had begun here, in these corridors of wood and tin?
How much of a life is shaped by choice — and how much is written before we even learn to speak?
Who would I be if my story had begun here, in these corridors of wood and tin?
How much of a life is shaped by choice — and how much is written before we even learn to speak?
I think of the worlds we inherit: the textures of our childhoods, the boundaries we grow within, the silent histories passed down through our parents. A boy raised in these alleys learns realities I will never fully grasp; a child born into the steady quiet of Zürich steps into a different map of possibilities. Long before either takes a conscious breath, their paths diverge.
Our perceptions, our fears, our strengths — all filtered through lenses we did not craft ourselves. Culture, class, memory, unspoken trauma, genetic echoes: they shape the frame long before we begin to look through it.
Standing there in the half-light, met by the boy’s steady gaze, I am reminded of something simple and humbling:
Reality is not singular; it is layered, inherited, uneven. And our own perspective is just one of many possible worlds.