Today I walked Bond Street in Nonthaburi again. Half-built towers. Stairwells open. Electrical lines hanging. The kind of buildings that are in-between; not abandoned, not alive yet.
And the graffiti.
The walls are getting hit while they’re still unfinished. Tags on bare cement. Quick spray jobs on columns that will absolutely be painted over in a few months. It’s not elaborate murals; more like presence. “I was here before this became something else.”
Here’s what I’ve noticed living in Thailand: space here isn’t neutral. It’s conscious. There are spirit houses outside condos, outside 7-Elevens, outside office parks. Offerings. Incense. Garlands. Even construction sites sometimes have their own small shrine tucked near the entrance. There’s an awareness that buildings aren’t just structures — they’re inhabited, protected, watched over.
So I have this theory — and I’ll say clearly, this is my observation, not a hard fact.
Writers hit buildings in progress because they know it’s temporary. The wall is unfinished. The paint isn’t final. The tag will disappear. It’s almost like tagging a draft version of the city. No one has spiritually claimed it yet. No tenants. No shrine out front. No blessing ceremony completed. It’s still in limbo.
But once a building is finished? Once it’s open, occupied, lit up at night? The graffiti drops off dramatically. Especially on places that visibly have shrines or offerings outside. That feels like a boundary. Not just legal — cultural. Spiritual.
I’ve also heard — again, this is just what people have told me — that some writers avoid certain abandoned hotels or houses that have gone into disrepair. Not because they respect the property owner. But because you don’t know what’s lingering there. Did someone die there? Is the space “heavy”? In Thailand, that question isn’t abstract. It’s real enough to influence behavior.
Whether that’s universally true or not, I don’t know. But walking these sites today, it felt clear: construction zones are fair game because they’re unfinished, and therefore unclaimed. Once the building settles into its role — once the spirits are invited in and the people move in — it becomes something else.
And personally? I’m drawn to this stage. I like the graffiti on raw concrete. It feels honest. Temporary city language on temporary surfaces. It’s the only moment the structure shows its bones and its interruptions at the same time.
A few months from now, the paint will cover it. The lobby will shine. The shrine will stand outside with fresh marigolds.
And the tags will be gone.
But for now, the building is still listening.
February 2026
