Fifth Journey Day 82: Plum Pits and River Breath

Date: July 29, 2025
Location: Khujand, Tajikistan

I spent the afternoon walking slowly along the Syr Darya. The water moved with a steady rhythm — not too fast, not too slow. It had just enough motion to remind me that it was alive. On the other side of the river, the buildings looked like they were leaning slightly. They looked a bit less sharp because of the distance and the passage of time. A few children were playing with sticks in the shallow water. Their voices sounded light and airy as they spoke. I didn't draw them. I just kept walking.

There was an old stone wall near one bend that stuck out towards the river. The surface was uneven, with areas of peeling paint and graffiti that had been weathered away by the sun. I stopped and sketched it loosely: the curve of the shadow it cast, the cracks in the plaster, the faint reflection of sky in the river below. It wasn't a very good drawing, but it helped me look. That was all she could take.

Even when people are talking, the air is still quiet. The market I passed earlier was full but not loud. People spoke in low tones and moved more than they spoke. I bought some green plums and ate them by the water. She was sharp and cold, and her skin was too sensitive. My fingertips smelled like stone fruit for the rest of the day.

I'm beginning to notice how each place has its own rhythm. Dushanbe was full of long pauses. Khujand feels restrained — not hurried, but quiet in short phrases. It's like a conversation that only starts when you sit down.

I think what I will always remember is the pale reflection of the wall in the water — slightly wobbly, almost not there, but trying. It reminded me of something, but I'm not sure what. Sometimes even strong things want to break down.