Hospital. Every seat is full of people holding babies, crying children, and exhausted doctors after working a 10-hour shift. It is too noisy. However, nothing could distract me from thinking about my six-month-old daughter, who is sleeping in her father's hands vivaciously with subconscious smiles, even without knowing about her illness. I looked at her face spontaneously, and she smiled again in her deep sleep. It had been 15 days since my daughter experienced the flu. Of course, the flu may seem like a simple illness, but it is a great challenge for a baby who doesn't even know if she exists or not. Besides, I don't know why, but my second daughter was born weak and had super tendency to become ill. As I was thinking about my second daughter, I relived my firstborn daughter and leaned forward to my husband whispering, "Can you call mother and ask if our daughter is OKAY?" He said, "She is okay; do not worry. I've phoned them". I know that she doesn't make a noise because she is very sensible, although she is only 4 years old. The sudden calling of my name woke me up from these thoughts. It was our turn to see the doctor. The doctor saw the chest X-ray of my daughter. I was worried about a terrifying change in his face. He shouted that we should operate on her immediately; otherwise, she might die. I was completely shocked. There were beads of perspiration on my husband's face. "Unfortunately, the surgeon is from another country, and he should be financially supported to come sooner. Otherwise, you cannot go and operate in a day," the doctor said. I was somehow relieved. "You also need to have $5,000 for the operation," the doctor added. I looked at my husband desperately. He said that he would try his best to bring money. As soon as we went out of the room, he went looking for money. I was crying and gazing at my daughter's face. At the end of the day, my husband came to the hospital with $3,000 and asked the doctor if he could give the rest of the money after the operation. "Undoubtedly, you could do it if a surgeon lived here, but now I am afraid that it's impossible." It was like, "Wait for your daughter's death." Have you ever remained in such a hopeless condition that you could not do anything, even if you wanted it to change so much? The only thing I was thinking about was ways to bring the doctor. I felt completely hopeless and began crying saying, "Does money really matter? My daughter is dying." The doctor just remained silent and went out. After a few hours, my chubby-faced daughter stopped breathing. I cannot remember how I arrived home. All I was thinking about was my daughter. I didn't believe that I really lost my daughter. My four-year-old daughter was afraid of seeing her parents in this miserable condition and hardly came and hugged me as she hadn't seen me for 2 days. I just threw her. She was so intimidated that she began crying. Both my mother-in-law and daughter were unaware of my daughter's death, so my husband hardly explained it to them. Having stopped crying, my daughter brought a big bathroom towel to her father and wiped his tears, but she didn't approach me. My husband hugged her tightly. It was the third week since my daughter's death. Losing her made me really depressed. As usual, I had slept crying for hours near my daughter's bed. But it was a man's voice that woke me up in front of the graveyard gate. When I realized I was near a graveyard, I felt extremely petrified. I had sleepwalked and came to the graveyard at about 3 o'clock. It was terrible to see countless graves and a roughly-faced man in a misty and dark night after waking up suddenly because of the abrupt voice of a man. He was not so shocked; maybe it wasn't the first time for him to see a woman in the graveyard at midnight. Having known who I am, he asked for my husband's number and called him asking to take me home. The next day was terrible for me because I became ill after I had walked barefoot and bareheaded on a bitter winter night. Until that day, I was depressed and couldn't think carefully about anything. It was my daughter who always looked after me and revived me by making me think about life. I realized that I still have my child, who cannot grow up without my care and aid, and family members who always love and appreciate me. That winter, I lost my daughter but found the reason for resurrecting at the same time. I also witnessed that every event that happens in our lives, whether good or bad, has a lesson to teach. Mine too. I learned not to feel overstressed in any condition, to appreciate what I have, and to never lose hope for the future. I thanked God, and He gave me the chance to be a mother twice again. This condition also had a positive effect on my firstborn daughter. When she realized that she had lost her sister due to the lack of experts, she wanted to be a doctor, not out of exigency but with great longing. Now, I have all the things I've prayed for in my life!

In our long and challenging life, we often feel the necessity for people who understand our feelings and motivate us when even our parents and friends cannot, there will be times when we try to escape from everything and begin a new life, nevertheless, there are some people who encourage us not to quit even though they do not know us, never seen or heard of us, and for me, the sources of this inspiration are legendary Eminem as well as his hypnotizing songs. He showed us that even a poor guy with a drug-addicted mother can conquer the world with his music. His main traits I found impressive are strong perseverance, firmness, and supportiveness. Marshall Mathers, widely known as Eminem is a rapper from Detroit who is going to be 48 this year. Despite he lived with a drug-addict mother and did not feel support from his father who left his family before he was born, he became one of the best rappers in history. In his childhood, he even did not have a real best friend. In his lyrics, he often recalls his youth memories saying everybody used to tell him he would be no one in the future, however in reality everywhere he went they had been playing his songs. Just because he was weak and white, other pupils frequently bullied and harassed him, once a kid named D'Angelo Bailey broke his nose taking all his money as he stated in the lyrics. After poor childhood, he could stand up and broke through and dominated all the charts with his songs. Likewise his childhood, his adult life was full of hardships too. In his verses, he mentioned he did not know how to be a good father, as he did not have one; he only tried not to follow the footsteps of his father. He showed us that deep inside he is a good man after the many scandals with his ex-wife Kim, admitting the mistakes he made and could not be with her daughter Hailie when they needed him most due to his career and moving to another city, but he always thought about his daughter and tried to give her the life he had never had, he could do everything to see her smile. Similarly, he also attempted to be a nice husband, after assaulting the man who was with his wife and protecting her, he ended up in jail. Apart from that, he is not afraid of saying what he thinks and this prominent factor attracts thousands of fans. He caused a lot of controversies and debates because of his straightforwardness and accusations of the government and other celebrities. He rapped even Presidents of the USA Donald Trump and George Bush because of racism, immigration, corruption, some laws, the Iraq War, and the Secret Service investigated him twice. In his last album, he criticized the gun laws in America and sang about the shootings in Las Vegas concert a couple of years ago and called people to care about the laws and vote against guns exampling several school shooting news. Eminem inspired plenty of popular singers and rappers with his charismatic career and supported them with duet songs. For instance, Ed Sheeran admitted he was a fan of Eminem since he was a kid and he always dreamt of singing a song with him and now he has collaborated in 3 songs with his idol. Moreover, once he said the only reason why he is still singing is that somewhere in the world some kid might be learning his lyrics looking in the mirror, and he does not care about anything else. In terms of awards he is one of the most successful singers ever, he has won an Academy Awards, 15 Grammy Awards, and numerous other accolades by international and American music organizations, with 220 million sold records he is one of the most-selling music artists eves. He is often compared to Elvis Presley as they both turned the music genres found by black people into the world style and became the best one in those trends. As a coin has two sides, Eminem has some bad habits too, such as inappropriateness of his songs for youth and women because of profanity; verbally harassing women a joke; blaming his mother for everything, and nosiness to politics as I wrote earlier. But I want to get only positive characteristics of him like stamina, determination, bravery, and supporting the rising talents. Whenever I feel depressed, I remember him and his struggles and it motivates me to feel better and stronger, I feel that a father-abandoned weak boy with a narcotic-addict mother became the best rapper in the world, why cannot I be the best in my field with my loved ones? I also want to help young talented people who need financial or moral support in the future just like him. He is a live proof of how great people can be if they never give up and do their best. “Everybody has goals, aspirations, or whatever, and everybody has been at a point in their life where nobody believed in them.” I believe you noticed who said this quote. Above all, he is just a musician and does not even know my existence in the world, yet he is the person who encourages me to be the person that I dream.

Read This when you lack motivation to go on!!! #When you lack motivation to go on, you doubt everything. you may not realize it, but the way you view your worth changes. you may question what you are doing, whether it be your studies, your careers, or your life choices. you may be questioning your worth- does a failure like me deserve to be friend with someone as smart as him or her, do they actually care or am I just a piece in this game of life? #I know you probably know these voices are telling you lies. but when you lack the motivation to go on, these doubts becomes louder than the voice of the truth. #When you are lack of motivation to go on, you find yourself giving into your emotional more. you question your strength when you saccumb to your stresses, to your breakdowns, to your tears, you find yourself feeling more distracted and losing your concentration easily. #when you lack the motivation to go on, you sometimes find yourself feeling numb, you find yourself losing control. whether it being your eating habits or your discipline in committing to your responsibilities. I know you find yourself procrastinating as much as you can and as long as you used to love. #And I'm here to tell you that it' okay. It's okay that you may feel like this for a while.But when you lack the motivation to go on, know that you will get up again. #when you lack the motivation to go on, know what it won't be permanent unless you allow it to be. you will get up again because you are stronger than you think you are. you will get up again, just like before. When you lack the motivation to go on, know that this does not reflect on your worth. I promise, there will be better days and better moments ahead.

I have been strolling around the cemetery for a while, reading the names written on the graves, bottle of whisky in my left hand, nothing in my right one. Even as a young child, I would scan the names and pictures on tombstones, but most importantly, the years: the date of birth and the date of death, the arrival and the departure. And, in an instant, I would know how many years that person had lived on Earth, for how long one's soul had been caged in a dungeon of flesh and bones, what was the time during which that one had been enlightened by the holiest blessing or sentenced to the most wicked curse. Who can tell which is for whom? No one, but the dead; except that the dead can't speak. It's ironic – isn't it? – how, after birth, death is the only experience guaranteed to every single being, yet the one none of us ever gets to tell – we never get to share it. Is it a peaceful ending to a long, joyful life, a slow withering, petal by petal, of the freshest rose in the garden, hours that feel like days of agonizing terror or a dagger instantly plunged into the epicenter of existence, not even leaving enough seconds for realizing the last moment has come? No matter the correct option, the living can only ask the soulless body of the dead, who can no longer answer. They teach you to start with the end of the question when answering in school, but after the blood stops running through your veins, remaining still forever, when people ask “How did you die?” or “Why did you die?”, indeed only the end of the question, “I died…”, will echo through your cold lips, the last beginning of an answer, with no ending. “REST IN PEACE” – it lies carved into a gravestone. I sit down to rest. The warm marble slab that has been enduring the rays of the hot summer sun burns the tips of my fingers, making me startle. But, as the night is approaching, a cool breeze starts blowing through the still green leaves of the grand trees beyond the yard and through the short gravestones. The colours of the dusk shall soon be gone, making way for the majestic dark night. The marble is turning cold. For now, I'm merely resting, but soon I shall rest in peace. I absent-mindedly subtract the year of birth from the year of death. If the latter is in the century that follows the former, I divide my computing into two: I subtract the number formed of the last two digits of the first number from one hundred, then add the result to the number composed of the last two digits of the last number. Too many formers and latters, too many firsts and lasts, but at least one's life seems longer if it is extended over two centuries. The longer the computation, the longer the life; two centuries, one milestone in history. But it's often not like that, for a personal history can be so different from the universal one, yet universal history is nothing without the individual truths – another thing they don't teach you in school. It's a special kind of mathematics – that of death. In school, they teach you to divide candies among children, to multiply watermelons by money and to add sheep to sheep. They teach you to compute life; but they don't teach you to subtract life from death. Because death is eternal, perhaps. Yet we only live throughout life. Rereading the thoughts I've crowded on these pages in random order, I reached the conclusion they are chaotic. I jump from one idea to another, without finishing any, then I unexpectedly jump back. They're all interlinked, but there's no beginning and no ending; they're not even cyclic, but more like a Möbius strip that has been twisted endlessly many times, or a hard to grasp maze in a higher dimension, which leads you through the same corridors no matter where you start from or where you try to get. Quite different from life, huh? But what if… what if there's actually no chronology? If I was dead before I lived, isn't it possible for me to live after I die? One of the nearby tombstones has only one date engraved. I leave my half-empty bottle on the ground and lift a pebble instead, which I keep throwing in the air and catching with my right hand as I move along on the pathway, towards the cemetery gate. I look up at the night sky to see an ocean of stars. The air has cooled down and certainly so has the slab. It's all peaceful here now, but I don't rest in peace. For now, I'm walking.

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.

I graduated high school back in 2011, and have been attending community college ever since. At the time I was not interested in continuing with school but my older sister forced me to enroll because education was and is the only tool that many of us have. The only tool to work our way out of being poor for the rest of our lives. I attended classes but I had no direction, no passion, but I still tried anyway, I changed my major several times and for a while it seemed like maybe I could make a career out of being an American Sign Language interpreter because it didn't seem too bad, but after four semesters of that I knew I couldn't continue studying something I didn't have a passion for. I made a D in ASL 4, and thought maybe school wasn't for me, so I decided not to return. That only lasted a semester because I fell into a deep depression and my family made it their business to make me go back to school. So when I began to look at what classes I could take, I noticed that I had taken many of the core classes along with some developmental classes that I didn't need to take, and had avoided the upper sciences and math. At a quick glance, what seemed to be the “easiest” class to me was Stellar Astronomy, and that was the only class I took in Spring 2016. That one class changed everything for me. All my insecurities and complaints that I had about every little thing became superficial after taking that class. Out there - time and space become one, there is a supermassive black hole at the center of our galaxy, dark matter etc. it all fascinated me, caught my attention. Earth, the only known planetary body to harbor life and we are a part of that, a part of the Universe. Suddenly I didn't hate school anymore and even though I originally wanted to become an astronomer because of that course, I knew the only career options for me were to either work for NASA or work at a planetarium which both seemed extremely unlikely because of limited opportunities and the competition. Through my searching I chose environmental sciences as an alternative, which seemed general enough because I began to appreciate every subject. My next step was to take more science and math, which I did and it was not easy. Spring 2017 I took Trigonometry and once again I made another D. That was personally crushing for me as well as for my gpa. I thought life was supposed to become easier when you found your passion but instead I left that class defeated. As a result, six weeks of my Summer I spent retaking Trig and made a B. In the Fall I took a Biology and a Geology course. I believe that it was somewhere around this time that I stopped receiving financial aid because for one I had become an independent student and two I had exceeded the time-frame given to students to complete their degree. I now had to pay tuition myself with the help of my family. My gpa wasn't the best, I had no achievements, no honors, no extracurriculars, so even though I had help with money I felt like I squandered so much of my time in school and I had no achievements. I had an idea of what I wanted to study but I began to wonder if it was too late for me. Everyday I felt an enormous amount of pressure from my family to finish school because I kept not graduating, and everyone thought I'd change my major again, and I needed to stop wasting my time so I could begin working to make big money. I was told to go back and finish my ASL interpreter training because I was halfway done with that degree. My family's worries were and are completely understandable but I did not want to settle because that's what so many people around me did and many of them are miserable. That one semester I took off was enough to keep me going - I never wanted to feel that way again. Spring 2018 I decided to go back to math and take Precal, and once again my life changed. The professor told the class about an opportunity called NCAS which was an acronym for “NASA Community College Aerospace Scholars” and I couldn't believe what I heard. Almost immediately I applied early and spent several agonizing weeks waiting to hear back. When I did hear back via email, I was accepted into the program! There was no way I was going to squander this opportunity. The online program lasted 5 weeks and was actually a competition with about 400 students from across the US who participated. Students who did well were going to be given a four day onsite visit for FREE as long as we earned a B to be considered. I made a 100% and after some paperwork I visited the Johnson Space Center in Houston, Texas. NCAS Summer Class of 2018. One year later and I am currently participating in NASA's Lucy Student Pipeline Accelerator & Competency Enabler or L'SPACE for short. I don't worry about my future as much anymore. I tried, failed many times, kept going and had to learn to become relentless with my goals and aspirations. I can't wait to see what my future holds. Just a little bit longer. But how much longer?

I started teaching ESL when I was eighteen years old at a private elementary and secondary school. It wasn't a decision I would have made if it wasn't for my dire need to pay rent in South America during a stay there for familial matters. Even so, after having completed the elective year, I decided that teaching was something I wanted to make into a career aside from my writing. It all stems from one source - my passion for the English language. However, I never thought for one second that teaching would be something I'd be able to pursue with my anxiety. Whenever a student's English comprehension and communicative skills would improve, I would be overwhelmed by this rewarding feeling. They were another step closer to their goal, whatever their circumstance may be, and I was closer to mine. Yet, the process was nerve-wracking for me. I would spend hours looking up material for the curriculum - no material would ever be enough for the students, as time-consuming as required for an hour class, as well-developed as my peers'. I would tremble when meeting a new student and worried about whether or not I was able to hide it from everyone. I felt alone, guilty for dreading another class in the upcoming week, loathing myself for not being happy even though, in my subconscious, I knew that I was. I just needed reassurance so I took to Google, but instead of finding a community that would support me, my emotions of paranoia intensified. Most forums were of teachers who had made the difficult decision of quitting their jobs in an effort to reach their own happiness and to find their peace of mind. Other stories told of teachers who underwent intensive therapy sessions and who were prescribed medication to help them function "normally" in the classroom. I was made vulnerable by reading these stories, my unspoken fear concretizing into my reality from the dimly lit computer screen in my room. I went into a panic, crying and immediately shutting down the computer afterward. I called my significant other as soon as I was safe under the warm confinements of my blankets and told him about how I was being forced to quit my job. His answer was simple. "If you quit your job, I will support you and help you find another one that you'll love. If you don't, I will support you in every moment of anxiety you may have." I spent the following days thinking of how to write my resignation letter to the ESL company I worked for in the evenings. I was unsuccessful in hiding my streams of nervousness from my coworkers, who can obviously sense my unease from stutters and a flushed face so it wouldn't come as a surprise to them, would it? The following week, after nights sleeping on the stress, I was numb to the worry and better able to think about my current situation. I was soon to be moving out and needed the monetary means to support myself, developing content and teaching was a trade I was familiar with, and I had already grown somewhat comfortable in the work environment I was in. I called my significant other and told him of my decision to stay and we began to have weekly at-home dates where we would sit on the bed together watching movies and comedy shows, cuddling with my dogs, and going over the material I had planned for the week, and I opened myself up to insecurities I thought too annoying and redundant to speak to him about. Gradually, I regained my confidence and my work ethic grounded into patterns that made classes easy to manage. From the early mornings I would listen to motivational speakers on YouTube, I learned how to give myself the daily affirmations I needed and soon enough, I believed them. You are stronger than your paranoia, stronger than your anxiety, or any mental incapacity that you may have. I don't use the word "may" to undermine the very real effects of this illness, but to remind everyone reading this not to make this part of their life into a monster you cannot defeat or an insurmountable mountain that you cannot conquer. The mind is a powerful thing and our bodies are quick to recognize habits. It's okay to take time for yourself and it's okay to ask others for help. Learning to construct a bridge between my anxiety and my career is one that I learned how to after months of trial and error. It's something I am still constructing now with much trial and error, but the important thing is to keep moving, especially when uncertain because either way, you will be progressing forward and answers will begin to crystallize in front of you so that you may be able to obtain equilibrium between the most important parts of your life.

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?