There isn’t much to say. After some half-hearted attempts at staying I bottled out of it all and returned to the old country, penniless and homeless. (There was a combination of reasons, but more on those in a separate post.) With the help of an old friend I found an accommodation and a job, and thus survived. Nothing more. Survived and kept going, but driven solely by the instinct of self-preservation.

The likelihood of my being able to get back home is, all things considered, minimal. I have obviously sentenced myself to spending the rest of my life in exile, both mental and physical. Ay, where there’s life there’s hope, but in all probability this Vonnegut quote is applicable: “life as a shapely story has ended, and all that remains to be experienced is the epilogue. Life is not over, but the story is.”



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