There’s a certain poetry in rust, rot and decay. For me beauty is not polished glass towers or freshly paved streets, but in the crumbling brick, forgotten rail lines, and faded paint of places that time and nature have tried to erase. Urban decay becomes a museum without walls. Every crack, every peeling layer of paint and the crumbling concrete becomes a story, a reminder that a city’s soul isn’t only in its growth, but in its history and its scars.Industrial landscapes hold a raw honesty, smokestacks against gray skies, abandoned factories with broken windows, steel beams twisting into the sky. These aren’t relics to be ignored. They’re monuments to labor, innovation, and the people who built the world we now take for granted. To wander through them is to feel the weight of history, to trace the fingerprints of lives lived and work done.The fascination here isn’t morbid; it’s reverent. It’s an act of preserving memory, of seeing value where others see waste. In the rust, in the rubble, in the echoes of machinery long silent. There is truth, and there is beauty.
1 min read