And then you write, you write, you write.

Let’s start with writing of any kind. With writing for practice, writing introducing us to writing. Let’s think about what we want, what we need, what we really love.

Let’s think whether it’s best to take the reality out of the equation, or keep it in the picture.

I have a feeling I’ve been living in a dreamland. And am scared to death that some day, one day I’m going to wake up and realize that the reality is what I have to face now. That there’s no falling back asleep. And that’s why I’m trying to reach it on my own. That’s why I’m making all those plans, why I overanalyse the situation/s I’m in. I hope that if I get there earlier, it won’t hit me. That I’ll ease into it, on conditions which will be partly mine.

I know everybody is afraid, everybody has to face it. I know it’s nothing compared to the Third World’s problems. But then, is it really?

Aren’t the more down-to-earth, even – let’s be blatant – animalistic needs and animalistic fight for survival actually better for a human?

I believe it’s at least better for the human’s soul. I honestly believe that those who don’t wear shoes and happen to go to bed, and even to work, to school – hungry, that those of them who live in warm clime countries, are actually happier than many of us.

I don’t believe they even ask the question “Am I right to be happy, do I have something to be happy about?” They just are. As long as they are alive, as long as there’s someone to talk to, to sing with, to share a meal and a bed/home.

But that’s because we always want more. I consider my dissatisfaction fully justified.

Were I to be unsure of whether this night there will be food on my table, I would undoubtedly give up all those ridiculous ambitions and care only for that. For having the certainty of a meal every night would then be “the more” I would yearn for.

But when I have access to so much food, I could eat all day without a break, and when I have access to education, to books, to lower-paid jobs, what I yearn for, is to fulfil my passion. To follow it, to live it.

But I can’t really do it here. The soul I don’t even have does not belong here. In this beautiful country of ludicrous contradictions, uprisings, hard-work, foolish regulations and grumpy people. I don’t feel I belong here.

Whether I will ever feel it – will remain uncertain until resolved. But at least I seem to be at home in England. At least I talk to people there, I share their temper and spirit, their values. I took their language for my own, although I don’t renounce my first one.

I just want to be, I want to write. I want to speak many tongues, but to do it in practise not in theory: reciting meaningless verses to myself and my neighbours from the opposite side of the street.

I want to intermediate between cultures. I want to be an expat for life.

But I need a job for that, first. I need one which will let me develop intellectually while not starving. And I want for a mentor.

I’m not sure he or she is really necessary. But I yearn for one.