I built a house, with my very own hands, brick after a brick, and it took me some years. I got exhausted meanwhile, got disappointed sometimes, but I continued through rain or sun. Then, one day, I realized that my very beautiful house is located in the middle of a maddening square. I had done my best and the place was confortable, super comfortable, but located in the worst area possible.
Life was impossible there. After a while, I could not bear it anymore. You might blame the society, this country, or fate – whatever you call it. Labels are among the least important things at the moment.
Anyway, what could I do except leaving the beloved house, forever perhaps, in search of somewhere else? So, I became homeless. Now I would live anywhere, ugly, cheap, cramped, or old; I may rent somewhere for no one knows how long; I might buy a place, I cannot say.
For sure, I know that there is nowhere in this world like the house I had all those years. For one thing, I spend all my life, my taste, my expectations on that; for another, I am so different that I may never fit into anything else, not even into the most beautiful ones. I left, and I am homeless now. But there was no other choice. But I had no other choice.
