A room of my own
I'm learning recently (from my parents) that the most practical thing might not be the best thing, the right thing to do. (In fact, the best things are seldom practical.) Living on my own might be the best thing to do for me now, although it is a bit scary and a more practical solution could be found. But maybe that would just make me put off what I should be doing. Spare time, as scary as it is, might give birth to something valuable.
I'm sitting in my temporary flat next to the railways. Trains pass by in all directions, making electric blue arcs, shaking the building from its foundations. Railways stand on archs, archs made of dirty gray tiles. These tiles cover the buildings, black frames hold windows. This place is like a fishermen's town. I am close to water. And I hope to be anchored soon.
Or maybe I am already anchored. As long as I write.