Have you ever traveled half of the city, lurking for a place where you can dissolve, become a part of the ruck, get away from your thoughts, push negative images out of your head after a day of work because of the carking and growing sense of impossibility to find a solution to a problem and eventually end up on a soft brown sofa at the entrance to the cinema? If yes, we definitely have got something in common with you! As a matter of fact, my task is to write a composition for a mini-competition in which “essay-lovers” from all around the Globe certainly take part. To be frank, it's a trifling matter, just hit 6,000 times on the keyboard and here's a ready-made essay. But how a person with the long-lasting problem of structuring any idea is going to cope with a pathological fear to clothe thoughts in a suitable language? And to top it all, let's add relatively profound knowledge and plenty of unrelated information, and you get a gun that has been dragged in the mud but seems to be functioning, and yet badly needs to be cleaned. Besides, the sight was shot down. However, how did I manage to agree to participate in this adventure, despite the above-written talents? I will try to outline briefly. Having received a master's degree after six years at the Department of Foreign Languages, and gaining a lot of experience teaching English, which, incidentally, I owe to constant absenteeism, skipping and very loyal teachers of mine (do not try to repeat it during your student days), I suddenly felt a moment of being satiated with profession, you know, the same feeling that you experience when eating the super large combo at the KFC. At the end of the meal, you think that you will not make a single order at the KFC ever again, but you continue to go there and give yourself the same promises. Damn, I would not be bothered now by Chicken Combo. What am I talking about? Oh, yes, my first profession! The first profession seems to me as a shirt on the student, it looks too big, does not suit, crumples, but still the student does not take it off, because it`s the shirt he`s got, plus it is still a starched one. Over the years, the student becomes a skilled worker, and now the same shirt sits on the body perfectly well, even presses a little in the neck, it does not allow breathing deeply, a collar squeezes the throat, it is slightly littered, lost the former gloss, but the worker does not remove it because he's just used to it. Realizing this back in those years, and not wanting for myself such a fate, I decided, by all means, to make an effort and drastically change my life. This very feeling of being satiated with the profession made an indelible impression on the young inquisitive mind, galvanizing an early departure from teaching and sending me in search of a new path of development. Departure was quick, but as practice showed, only temporary. Over the next three years I was pretty tapped, like a sea ship during a storm. I was driven to the port cities, represented by a myriad of different jobs, where I felt like a native of Tortuga, rather than a representative of the East India trading company. I was such slobber and a rioter putting all the talents and emotions to the show, but in no way was I stoic-like with iron nerves and grip, so necessary in today's world. In general, I could not get accustomed to and become a member of the board. And yet again, I am tempted by the illusory hope that my fragile boat, contrary to the forecasts of common sense, will sooner or later become a real two-mast brig. After all, looking at the truth in the eye, it is necessary to recognize that there is nothing good in being a professionally-confused young man with a sense of heightened justice. At least, not in our society. No. Not at the present time. I do not take anything for granted for as the proverb goes “Heaven helps those who help themselves”. Well….I am trying no matter how arduous and challenging it can be sometimes. Unfortunately, or fortunately, I never understood why I agreed to participate in this competition. A squeak comes from a distance. The door of the cinema opens. Babble violates the blissful silence of the last working hours of the shopping center. A satisfied and smiling gang wanders along the corridor with tired faces. They just watched Deadpool 2. They can only be envied. Silently removing the laptop in a bag, I join this procession, from the side similar to the great migration of peoples called “Voelkerwanderung”. Tomorrow, most of these people will put on the pickled shirts and make the same order at the KFC. But I know for sure, I will not be among them. And what about you?