Naida Muratović

Writers on Photographs



THESE HANDS HAVE SEEN more than just hard work, displayed by the branching veins that pop out of the skin as if they are trying to escape my ageing body.

As I sit here and witness people running, walking, passing by, and carrying everything and anything they own, buy, have, or possess, I light a cigarette and rest my hands on my lap. I sit here silently in the midst of a market full of people trying to sell, to buy, to repurchase in order to face another day having or owning something that has an expiration date.

As I sit, I think how I don’t own anything more than other people.

We are all the same at some point in our lives. We learn and we try and we sell and we buy and we sit and light a cigarette and ask ourselves why our days pass by without noticing us, our ageing faces that carve out a smile on demand, or our aching hands. Who does notice us? Who witnesses our lives in these streets? Who will ever remember us as we walk all together through the crowd of this market, buying, owning, possessing, and having everything that has an expiration date?

Do I have an expiration date?

“Are we born with one?” – I ask a friend sitting right beside me.

“Absolutely, yes” – he says.


I take a deep breath and remain silent for a second. I imagine a life in which all of us ask ourselves the same question over and over again. And the question is simple.

What is really important in life? 

Words start to echo in my head.







fading away

or living? 

“Shall we go now?”

“No, let the guy take a picture” – my friend adds with a smile.

“Oh, yes, let him capture our impeccable, shiny shoes.”