The gringa had lived in the Colonia San Rafael neighborhood of San Miguel de Allende, Mexico for over thirteen years, gringa being the local word for an American woman living in Mexico. The old Mexican man with a limp reminiscent of Charlie Chaplin's "Tramp" had lived in the neighborhood too, probably his entire life. The two passed each other many times walking down the hill, and every time the old man saw the woman, he said to her in English that one word that he apparently knew: "mo-nay." Time after time, the same word, "mo-nay." She grew annoyed with him, thinking, "Is that how he sees me? As only a source of money?" It isn't that she never gave to people in need -- she did, often generously, whatever she could. It's just that his one word was so constant and such a habit that it really got on her nerves. Not wanting to encourage him, she either ignored him or said, "No no tengo nada ahorita." “I don't have anything right now.” And walked on quickly. This went on literally for years. At times it almost seemed like a joke between them, him saying "Mo-nay" and she saying, "Nope, nada." And then one blinding hot day, the sunlight bouncing off of everything so much that your eyes hurt, he said something different. "Mo-nay. Hun-gray." She stopped and looked at him, as if for the first time. It had never occurred to her that perhaps he actually was hungry. She felt ashamed, and she took him over to the nearest tienda and asked him what he wanted to buy. His needs were simple: a bolillo--a small loaf of white bread--and a Coke. She bought them and gave him twenty pesos for a refresco later. And she asked his name. "Rubén," he said. "Mucho gusto, señor Rubén. Nice to meet you. Soy Frances," said she. After that, their relationship was different. He no longer was some needy old man, he was Rubén. Sometimes when he saw her, he still said, "Mo-nay" but it was different now that she knew his name and so if she had a few pesos with her, she gave them to him with a smile. And often, before leaving the house, she remembered to think of him and would grab a couple of coins in case she saw him. Sometimes, when he saw her, he didn't ask for money, but asked, in a neighborly way, "A dónde vas? Where are you going?" Or, "¿Acabas de volver del Centro? Did you just get back from town?" And she would talk to him for a few minutes. One day he was walking down the hill with his customary limp that spoke of hip problems, and she said, "¿Adónde va, señor Rubén?" "Where are you going?" And he said, "Estoy caminando para hacer ejercicio y conocer a mis amigos.” “I'm walking for exercise and to meet my friends." And she thought, "Wow, he knows he needs to move his body and he needs to socialize." She thought about this unexpected friendship that they had, and what a gift it was that his presence in her life had helped her shift her perspective from seeing him as someone who was needy to someone who was her neighbor, living life in his way, making the best of his circumstances, just as she was. She realized that he had caused her to confront her own unconscious bias. This was a big step, and she wanted to memorialize it by having a selfie with him. One day he was walking up the hill at the same time she was. "Would it be okay to take a photo with you, señor Rubén?" she asked him in Spanish. He said yes right away. Halfway up the hill, they stopped and looked at the camera. She was wearing her pandemic mask; he was maskless and wearing his battered hat. She stood a little back from him to try to keep "safe social distance." The birds were singing in the tree behind them and she felt happy for this moment. It felt to her like an achievement. There's still a long way to go; no doubt there are many more unconscious biases in my mind and heart. But I, the gringa in question, will always remember Rubén and the gift he brought me. The cost of a few bolillos and some Cokes is a very small price to pay.
Through the years, my sons teased me about my good posture and how, while they were growing, I wouldn't tolerate slouching. “Mom's fault,” I'd say with a smile. Although no genius, as my sons often point out, they are also just as quick to comment on how much I do know. They call me a walking encyclopedia of nonsensical trivia. Once again, I shrug and say, Mom's fault.” While my mom was never what was considered a strict disciplinarian, when it came to schoolwork, she was tough. I remember as soon as I could talk, she'd drill me every me every Saturday morning. Using two pages at a time of the dictionary, she would read each word, emphasizing on its pronunciation, encouraging me to try and spell it correctly. Back then, luckily, the dictionaries were small. Mom kept track of the words I misspelled in order for me to study them for the following Saturday. By the time I reached Kindergarten, I found it easy to read whole sentences. Soon, my “home education” expanded adding Math to my list of things to learn. After my spelling and reading lessons, Mom gave me wo sheets of paper with arithmetic problems to solve. Mom never confined her idea of teaching to just schoolwork. She believed in a healthy mind and healthy body. While I'd be pouring over homework, if Mom saw me slouching, she'd quietly walk behind me and gently t ouch my back. With one finger. Without one word spoken, I would immediately straighten to a more proper position. For about five minutes a day, three times each week, I would have to stand with my back against the wall. “Touch your heels to the wall. Now, your butt! Head up and back; shoulders back! Stomach in!” I know, I know. She sounded like a drill sergeant, but it kept my posture intact and my spine straight. Most of my friends learned to cook while their moms stood at their sides verbally instructing their every move. Mom's method differed completely. Handing me a recipe, she'd back away. Her reason was simple. Anyone can mimic; anyone can follow step-by-step instructions as each is given. It's more important to read and comprehend. As she often said, “Following a receipt teaches you to learn to follow any instructions.” However, she remained in the kitchen with me – just in case. Mom believed in teaching by example, not by using a bunch of words. Too often, my friends heard their moms say. “Do as I say, not as I do.” Never once did I hear that phrase from my mom. I also never heard the more familiar, “Because I said so.” Mom would often take me for long walks in the park, weather permitting. At times, we'd go for a train ride to the local zoo or museum. Once a month from June to September, mom and dad would pack a lunch and we would head to the nearby lake for a picnic. In addition to schoolwork, mom taught me to appreciate the beauty of a flower, the wonder of a rainbow, and the compassion needed for those less fortunate (like the WWII Veteran who sat legless on the street corner begging for a few cents to help him get by. Even tough money was tight, we never passed him by without Mom dropping a few cents in his little tin cup. She also taught me that although life is not perfect, we must strive for that goal and not be disappointed if we fail. Mom taught me the appreciation of demanding work. “After all,” she said, “the harder you work the more you appreciate the end result. If things came too easily, we would take those things for granted.” Yes, mom taught me many things: reading, spelling, love, and life. Now, here I am in my seventies. Mom passed away a number of years ago but even at my age, I am in good health. I still sit properly, and my back is straight. While I never went to college (as I said money was tight), my knowledge and education about what matters is exemplary. I am not afraid to tackle new projects and while I strive to succeed, I don't sulk if I fail. I just change my attitude and try again. My sons now, are grown with families of their own and emulate Mom's parenting as much as possible. I insisted on rearing my children the way Mom reared me, with compassion, understanding right from wrong, a thirst of knowledge, and fun in doing everything. I have been a good mother and teacher to my sons (they told me to say that), and I can see what wonderful husbands and fathers they are in every way (their wives tole me to say that!). Mom would be so proud of them. The reason for our successes in maintaining such happy homes, I feel is simple. It's Mom's Fault.
- Who are you when no one's looking? Find the answer and we'll come back to our conversation, - I was told long time ago. As we know, everything takes place for a reason. Let me take you to the journey of a mindset change. Initially I associated the term quarantine with fear, hesitancy and negativity. In case of following this path, it could lead to the lowest point of life. And as it happened to be true, quarantine became part of our life in a pretty unexpected way. Want it or not, but it makes an impact. In my case the impact was life-changing. Yet, don't rush with assumptions. After spending a while isolated, a quite unanticipated thought crossed my mind. It made me realize that there's a meeting I've been postponing for so long. This is the worst time to make it happen, so I'll go for it :) Despite the rules of staying at home during this dangerous period of quarantine I felt that it could no longer be on hold. The person I wanted to meet was the one who asked me the key question. Even though I didn't have the answer by that time, I knew I'd be welcomed anyway. Honestly, I wasn't ready mentally. The time was inappropriate. I didn't reach to the point when I could feel comfortable with that person. Is this feeling of insecurity familiar to you? When the person knows the REAL you. However, I dared to take my chance, cause especially this period turned the inner calmness into priority. We met. It was a long conversation filled with gloominess, uncertainty, frustration, patience, simplicity, joy, tranquility. Quarantine has this unique effect of forcing us to face our deepest fears, memories, thoughts. I mean the hidden ones. The ones we weren't able to notice before, because of our previous “busy” lifestyle. We all have multiple identities, simply said – versions of ourselves. Some are “proven” by society; therefore those are the ones we show to the rest of the world. Our family, friends, basically everyone recognizes us as THAT kind of person. Still there's one left. A real version remains undetected. The one we try to hide so determinedly. Probably, my initial assumption wasn't precise. Particularly when I claimed that the timing of this meeting wasn't the best one. Apparently, society's isolation set the true identity of mine free for a while. That was the moment when 2 puzzles combined. Eventually the fulfillment I felt afterwards made me realize that our inner peace and needed mental balance is held by facing The Person – the only version of ourselves shown only when no one is looking.
She used to sit by the sea and watch the waves dance rhythmically and lively as if they were playing a child's game. The white sea balls in the water rose and fell calmly, keeping their distance. They preferred ‘social distancing'. The sun burned like a fiery wreath. The elderly woman near the sea was reading a leaflet. She probably found it thrown away. The words of the advertisement sounded provocative. She walked into the sea, opened her arms to the sky as if she wanted to make a rainbow. She faced the sun, as if flirting with it. She was doing something that was totally hers.She danced like a ballerina, turning around, making rings with her body. She warmly greeted the hot circle of fire.The sun might turned a blind eye at her, like the famous advertisement. Even this word, if read in French, becomes vitalité. The dictionary could explain more: caractére de ce qui manifeste une santé. Indeed, she felt vitality and energy. She was possessed by a teenage vibrancy, as if something inside her had been reborn or perhaps never died. What feeling dominated her? How could she feel lonely when the Mediterranean Sea stretched out in front of her? Maybe she was celebrating something that was gone. Maybe she was celebrating something that was coming. It was so reminiscent of the movie 'La dolce vita'. She took her towel, lit a cigarette and left. Those were the summer days. These days like keeping a distance too. And now, silence or solitude?Could silence mean solitude? The children. They were adults now.They had to protect her from any risk of social contacts. Suddenly, she remembered that she had to clean the windows of the house. They were really blurry. Even the images of her imagination became blurry too. Now she could see clearly. The time was 19.10 o' clock. She saw him again passing by. Τhe air one more time swept away the brown leaves and the silence is non negotiable. The absence is obvious on his face. Every night he appeared passing by the same street. He didn't talk to her. She liked to watch him walking. She found it somehow interesting to watch people on the street passing by. His walk was quick as he passed by the palm trees.Every night, he passed by. Nothing had really changed for him. No social distancing codes or any other kind of norms. His white jacket and blue jeans seemed slightly worn and his long messy hair together with his grey beard gave the impression of a revolutionary. He was wearing a large earring that could mean a deliverance. Perhaps it could just symbolize the concept of freedom. Who was he? She wondered many times but never actually tried to find out. That was not the point… Why want to destroy the images of her imagination. He always continued his way. He lights a cigarette looking for a tiny moment at the sky. Maybe he was searching for a silence that speaks loudly. A thought seems to occupy his mind for a few seconds. He finishes the cigarette and throws the butt away, like getting rid of something suspicious. Sirens of a police car sounded remotely. A police car seemed to be getting closer. What was going on? The elderly woman was so curious now. The story began to be getting really exciting. The brown leaves together with the cigarette butt, flew away rhythmically with excitement too. The passer-by does not seem to care or feel scared of something. For him everything is so conventional. The police car stopped in front of him. Two young police officers seemed to be asking him something and then the passerby showed them something on his cell phone and then they left. He was just a passer-by. Nothing more. A passer-by in his own path. He is bored. His youth was now gone. All kinds of experiences of yesterday are always fresh to his memory. Now he was just walking. No particular direction. He does not care where to go. He lives for today. Even if today seems boring. He is a revolutionary. He is moving forward freely. The empty streets and the discarded masks do not seem to influence his thoughts. Could the ‘system' define the measure to his freedom? He used to defy all these norms in the past. Could he be different now…? The elderly woman remembered her own personal slogan ‘vitalité…' and thought that they had something in common….She always enjoyed watching the neighbors through her window. Sometimes she even wished that she could invite them to her house for a coffee but then she knew that she couldn't. Elderly people should be more careful and keep social distancing rules more strictly. She hated that. How many times would she clean the house or watch television? All programs on the television were either boring or news with all the sad information on people dying due to the pandemic. People seem to be more scared and alone than ever. But what if all humans started to feel more vitality instead of hiding themselves behind complaints and murmurs.The passer-by on the street suddenly waved at her for the first time…
Today at work I overheard someone bad-mouthing me. Not just anyone, though. My manager. The person who had been mentoring and teaching me since I started working at that company only six months back. The person with whom I shared an office with every day. Moments before, I had made a minuscule mistake while talking to a customer on the phone. She was quickly able to correct me before the phone conversation ended, so in the end, everything was fine. Apparently, I was wrong though, and that mistake made it necessary to vent to a co-worker about. This particular woman didn't have a quiet voice to begin with, so it wasn't hard to pique my attention. When I heard the harsh whispers I immediately froze. My ears went into an ultra-satellite mode. I could feel all the blood rush from my head. My hands got icy cold. The thuds from my heart were rattling my chest. My emotions shifted rapidly between anger, sadness, confusion, embarrassment, and betrayal. The next thoughts that flashed through my head were that I needed to put my two-week notice in. There was no way I could show my face around here again. Why do people do that? Why do people have to talk negatively and gossip about others? Unpleasant flashbacks to high school were triggered. It was all childish and stupid, coming from someone who knew better. Even though I tried so hard to barricade them, the tears started to spill out, along with a few stifled sobs. I was truly hurt. I already didn't enjoy being there as it was, and hearing those hurtful remarks didn't make it any easier. Since I was still relatively new, I realized it was inevitable that I would make mistakes. But of course, nobody wants to make them. We want to achieve perfection and excel at our jobs. Nobody wants to be the straggler who doesn't know what they're doing. The person who gets dirty looks or eye rolls when they're struggling to complete a task. This was one of my worst fears coming true. When she casually returned to the office, all my bottled up emotions exploded and I confronted her about it. It all kind of gushed out without me being able to control it. Normally that is something I wouldn't have the guts to do because I hate confrontation. But for some reason this time I shakily stood up for myself, like facing a lion in a den. She seemed shocked that I had been able to hear the private conversation and admitted what she had done was wrong and not appropriate. She repeatedly apologized while I tried to get my crying convulsions under control. I could tell she felt bad, and I'm glad she did. I replay that moment back in my head and am so proud of myself for saying something. If I hadn't, she probably would have kept at it. Even when you don't think you have the courage inside yourself, it'll emerge when you truly need it. This was a brutal reminder to always be kind to others. Even though it's tempting, it's important to avoid the addictive habit of gossiping. You never know who may be listening.
RHYTHM OF ANCIENT SONGS AND BEAT OF AFRICAN PRAISE POETRY My birth is a metaphor of bullet-traces and the ironic verse of Leninist style-songs for black liberation that reverberated the grey-mist clad red-mountains of home – Zimbabwe. My birthing was a stitch between the thud of war-time guns and a heave of pungwe jives. Young women of my mother's age were volunteer maids during the traumatic but zeal-oiled Chimurenga times, cooking and washing for the cadres of liberation. Chimurenga songs sung by these war-ironed peasant mothers and bullet-toughened collaborators in the red-hills of Wedza. These Mother-guerrillas endured the hard throbs of grenades and the thrash of midnight-rains in those village hills alongside bushy male combatants. They learnt the soprano of the gun and the tenor of death.These were heaven-echoing struggle hymns. On the day of my birth, heavy rains rattled the winter-crusted red-earth. Rivers sobbed with heaven's tears and sorrows of war. That grueling night, swarms of collaborators were moved from one base to another, my earthly goddess was among those pilgrims of war. …her heartbeat thrilled my tender ears and her blood-ripples lulled my faint soul to sleep. And somy foetus spirit rode along with waves of echo and beat of verse. Ingenuity. I am the blessing of the trip, the child of war song and rain. A mystery. I am a child of song. I was birthed during the exodus. That rebel's war was characterized by death, wailing, stampede, bravery, shallow-graves, song and continuous walking. A trailblazing Africa reality show. My earthly goddess was a dedicated collaborator, volunteer and songstress. She carried freedom in the sacred cave of her womb. After their strange overnight long walk to freedom base of Mbirashava – rains ceased fire, war-drums paused and their echoes got trapped into the blankets of early day mist. Then came my birth cry they say like an exclamation engraved on the yellow-disc of the smoke-bruised African sun. Claws of dawn caressed the sorrow-soaked red-hills. My goddess wriggled in a thick volcano of red-clay mud, ochre-red blood and dead grass. Her womb groaned from labor pangs and suddenly the wind was cold. June dared the earth and everything in it. Cold-winds whined ferociously to disobedient flora and delinquent vultures. Winter, fast clicking a pause button to the jungle's daily festivals. I was born. Cadres and collaborators dribbled a liberation jive for my homecoming. They called me Gandanga. I was initiated into this earth by the alto of howling winter-winds, baritones of barking-baboons and the ease soprano of hooting-owls. A child of song. I was introduced to the festival of sounds, loud and low, good and bad, discordant and beautiful. Upon arriving at the village homestead, the earth trembled, the air got electric with ululations. My paternal grandmother fervently recited a traditional totemic praise poem. “Chirasha, Chikandamina, Weshanu uri pauta, Mavsingo a Govere, Vari Zimuto, Mukwasha waMambo, Vakafura bwe rikabuda ropa” A lone drum thrilled them into the audience into another dancing routine. The echo of the tinkling drum resonated with the beat of my grandmother's recitations. They said that my eyes winked in response to their merriment. Even up to this day, I beat my chest with pride to that ceremonial reception performed by an elder qualified to be my ancestor. My old singer-grandmother usually bundled me behind her old but steely back. Lullabies caressed me into dreamland until my goddess returned from her daily errands. I was raised by extraordinary songs, sweet and mellow to every infant's senses. I enjoyed the ear-tickling ancient poetry. They say I slept to the rhythm of that beautiful lullaby. My grandmother was Gogo in African – she would fall asleep too. Mother returned from the red-clay fields to find us under the watch of spirits and snores. After some weeks my umbilical cord wilted and fell. They buried it under the hearth near the main fireplace. Thus how we are bonded by our departed clan spirits. And so I grew up in a highly strict African traditional clan. My father and fellow clansmen brewed ceremonial beer for traditional rites. They supplicated to ancestral gods to end life-tormenting ailments, ravaging hunger, abject poverty and bad omen. Their usual incarnations, totemic praise's performances cultivated the griot in me. Praise and protest poetry became my official language. After my umbilical cord rites, my father gave me a name. He named me after the most powerful battalion of Tshaka Zulu, a battalion that never lost even a single battle – Imbizo.
Found an eighth grade and neighbourhood friend that I haven't meet in a long time. Ranoldie Love Morty that was her name and still is. She she was the only one who understood me and had the same interests (obsessions). She at the time was a homely red head at the time and had facial scarring about the left. My parents stopped me from seeing her because she was the problem. when she found me on imvu she asked for my Facebook. We fell in love. She kept her promise that she would be a medical examiner. I have to do the same with pleasure. Here she is on the left and I am on the right In an imvu pic. She stayed true to her looks I lie about my looks on imvu. Some friends come and go but she obviously stayed.(came back)
I am writing my story. Not just here -- in this place and this space, but my life story. Every day when I awaken, the page is blank for me to fill. How will I fill it? The pen is mine to wield. The choice is mine: Will it be a page of adventure or service or quiet reflection? Like the best books, the best lives contain a variety of moments: those moments of quiet reflection give us time to breathe. As readers, we need those moments after pages of intense action. The same is true in life. After busy days or weeks or seasons, we desperately need moments of quiet reflection to rest and process. We love adventure and it is necessary, too, for an excellent book or a life well-lived. We need our heart pumping, moments of excitement interspersed with trepidation. While I am not the most ADVENTUROUS person, I love traveling and trying new foods. I enjoy the outdoors and music. All of those provide moments of adventure to enhance the story of my life -- new places visited, new foods tried, new paths walked, new goals met, concerts attended and performed, and so much more. The pages of adventure are some of the highlights in our books -- and in our lives. I can choose to fill the page of today with pride and selfishness or I can choose humility and service. I've chosen each, at different times, and that's part of life, too. Even now, at my age, there are still days I struggle with pride and selfishness. Usually now, though, my days and my pages are characterized by service -- kindness and helping. Sometimes I act first and my heart follows a bit behind my hands and feet. I know if I do the right thing for the right reason, my heart will catch up -- even on the days when it would rather wallow in selfishness, bitterness, resentment or pride. I try not to fill my pages with those moments, but I would be lying and hypocritical if I said they don't exist! Those pages teach us to live better -- and remind us that we are all human -- struggling with human weaknesses. They remind us to be kind because we all have those struggles! There are some pages I don't choose, but I have to write them anyway -- these are the mandatory writing assignments -- the moments that choose us. Tragedy, grief, unfairness, persecution, heartbreak. They are the pages we want to skip, but we can't because they help shape the character. We know if we skip these parts, we wont understand the character as well. So we soldier on in our book, as we do in our lives -- with the tears rolling freely and the heart jostling around in pieces. Yes, those moments shape us, strengthen us, and challenge us. We would not be the same without them. Little by little, the tears dry and the heart mends. The scars remain and the memories still sometimes are hard to revisit, but we appreciate those pages and their value in the overall story that is being told. Sometimes it would be nice to be able to leave a page blank and come back to it. When we are waiting, seeking, plagued with indecision. A writer of a novel may have that luxury, but as I'm writing my life story, I don't have that as an option. I woke up this morning and I must live today. 86,400 seconds each day in the story of my life to be used, wielded, and lived. 86,400 seconds to write something of importance. It cannot be rolled back or rolled forward. It is to be lived in the here and now and reflected upon later to help shape and create the next 86,400 seconds. That's how we grow. It is one of the hallmarks of good characters -- they grow! I want to be a character that grows! So I reflect on how I spent this 86,400 seconds and it helps me choose how I spend the next 86,400 . . . little by little and bit by bit I make better choices; I grow. As I do, I impact and influence other characters in the story of my life -- and the story of theirs. They also influence and impact me. Books and lives are meant to be shared. I must admit there are days when I am just going through the motions, keeping time. There are days and pages where my 86,400 seconds were not very memorable or full of significance, but It's not how I want to write my story. I want to end up on the last page -- the last breath -- used up and tired and full of great memories and great lessons. I want to leave behind a shared legacy of a live well-lived and a life book well-written. That's where my faith comes in. It helps me to live well and push forward and persevere. It gives me a higher calling and a reminder that my life book is NOT just for me -- but for all who are watching and all who will come after me. It's a reminder that I'm writing this story to be shared and I want it to be worthy of sharing.
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?