HOME STREET MY HOME

HOME STREET MY HOME

Homelessness, not belonging and being pushed to the edge of life
there are several types of edges. Too much. I myself have experience sleeping on
park benches, isolation, solitude and self-isolation. Too many times.
It is true that my bench was in London’s Green Park,
next to the Ritz Hotel. Trash glamor forever.
As a child, I was in the care of my mother and grandfather. The parents were dating
to work, kindergarten didn’t even come to mind, because we had it
a three-generation family community. We children ate at the neighbor’s house,
who cooked better that day, slept once here, another time there, like
fits in such a commune. Neighbors took us to the fish shop, from
clothespins, we made various toys and dusters.
All those evenings in the yard, when we were chatting by the fire, baking
potatoes, corn, chestnuts. An idyll. A wonderful base to feel
community belonging and security. But no. My story, Fr
my special place in this mosaic of life is different.
Even as a child I felt different. I was kind of a tomboy
gentle, sensitive, curious, sought now the company of girls, now games
with boys. I was the leader. I loved following along. Rather Indian than cowboy.
I wielded a knife, an ax as skillfully as a sewing machine, a cooker
and a plywood carving saw that we designed in
all kinds of shapes. I never felt wanted, let alone
beloved. I’m probably doing the family an injustice, but our stories
they do not recognize foreign endorsements. Our stories are often an escape
from reality, escape into the world of pain, anger, sadness, into the world of egoism,
self-pity, longing, where we can blame at will,
we judge and feel sorry for ourselves. The role of the victim is written for us on
human fish skin. God, God is tattooed into our subconscious
and so, willy-nilly, we have to play this game of hide-and-seek in which
we are both cat and mouse. Sometimes a dog. And of course we must
to choose such life moves that we are right. Victims on white
we are the recipe.

And just as strong or weak are our offended stories, so
it is probable and predictable to what depth we will sink,
before realizing that the bottom is ideal for a push to heights or for
eternal peace in the depths of one’s own creations.
No one can ever do anything really fatal to you unless they do
you allow it unless you submit and accept his game. Like
I like to say, we train people how to treat us. One of the
one of the hardest lessons is learning to say no with a clear conscience.
No one can protect me from me. No one can do it for me
to help if I am not ready to accept help. Reasons?
Excuses? Prejudice? A bottomless pit. The more it hurts, the more right it is
i have Because I feel it. Because I know exactly. Because I am myself
convinced me that whatever I think is killing me. Sometimes literally.
We are prisoners of our own stories. Drama queen syndrome. Offended and
the affected five-year-old smurf guides me through the labyrinths of everyday life.
In the Večer newspaper, I read about a middle-aged man who literally
he wanders the streets of Maribor disheveled and now they will probably find him
institutionalized against his will. I know from personal experience,
that he does not accept the help offered. Neither financial nor material.
In the winter, after much persistence, I managed to get him one
socks. I don’t know his story.

After what he got into
transformed, his story about himself must be stronger
from any will to care for oneself. And here comes the rabbit. Mostly
we are not sure that we deserve better than what we have. “Good
is, who is it for.” “Be content with the little one.” “Who do you think it is
are you?” “Better a sparrow in the hand than a pigeon on the roof.” The whole nation
the tradition of diminishing one’s own values ​​has been formed over the years.
We have a whole system of subjugation and keeping people in obedience
invented. To Caesar the things that are Caesar’s, and to God the things that are God’s. What
remains, but must be saved. Hard work. Garanje. The need for burnout
and exhaustion. The cult of overwork and hunger for more. At that
but we forget about the little germs that peek out of children’s eyes, suck everything up
these abominations of materialism and learn the primitivism of everyday life.
We put teenagers on the road because as long as they are under our control
the roof, it will be as we say, regardless of whether we have
right or wrong. Who is the boss of the house now? Meanwhile, life
opens doors, closes them, offers us all possibilities and
diversity. We are offered everything. But we don’t feel worthy
and we dare not take. “It’s going to happen somehow.” “It’s going to have to hold out.” “Teeth
squeeze.” “You’re not the only one.” Meanwhile, they with a better self-image
they walk through the flower garden of joy and prosperity. Rebels
we know how to be without reason. We know how to push our head through a wall. It’s a wall
rarely gives up. The head is anyway full of Cankarjan wisdom, which
they do not contribute much to a good self-image: “Servants! For servants
born, bred for servitude, created for servitude. Master
it changes, but the whip remains, and will remain forever; because it is the back
Crooked, used to the whip and eager.” Because safr furamo, Tereza would say
Wolf.
Enough of this self-pity. Enough of this giving to nothing.
Enough. I’m worth more. Everything belongs to me. Everything is enough for
everything. If I have, I can share. If I have, I can give. If I don’t have
I can’t give it to myself yet. I realized this one morning when
I washed up in a public toilet in a London Underground station
next to the Ritz. I chose the push up. I chose life
I chose love for myself and for the world. I’m not on the surface yet
murky villains of the past. My lungs get blocked every now and then
and I feel like I’m going to suffocate right now, that I’m going to explode
trachea and I will drown in my own illusion of defeat. And then slightly
I turn my head up and in the distance a faint light is quietly reflected
freedom of choice. The choice is always mine. Yes, I choose life
I choose love, I choose myself and I am available for you to choose me.
I’m here, so to speak. Welcome, Life.

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