It comes easily to me to consider moving to another city or country as, after all, it won't change much to me. I keep my microworld in myself and it is me and coincidence who decide what moods and tensions are born inside of me. The environment is important, but what is most important, that is people who are close, just does not happen to me. My base is my parent's house in the countryside – the beginning of the thread, the center of gravity. When I'm away from there, nothing grows around me for good. I'll never start any solid foundations, great gardens, strong bonds. Furniture or walls are something I find after the previous occupants, just like someone else will get them when I leave. In the consciousness of people I meet, I get an accidental and rather peripheral place. This is how I want it to be. The only way I can do it.
So I can change the city – I'm a stranger where I live right now anyway. No place and no milieu has ever been truly mine, because I don't know how to make myself accustomed. And I can change the country, after all I never actually agreed to live in the real Poland. I feel sentimental about the writers, journalists, musicians; about the countryside in summertime and evenings in fall; about the tricky language and a few tastes, scents... But all these are just my delusions, which will turn into nostalgia once I'm abroad. I can change my social circles, because – though everyone is different, important and valuable – in the end my role boils down to silent watching, admiring from a distance. Getting closer won't do me any good. It never has. If it happened at all.
So I may find myself wherever life wants me to be. I belong only to myself. (And my delusions.)
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