That’s all the earthly goods I own (okay, I also have about 2000 more volumes of books stored at home in Budapest). Isn’t that much of property, is it? Well, it was a real pain to move all of it into the car-free zone of the Altstadt and I’m now convinced that I’m in the immediate need of some deep self-reflection, because I obviously have Serious Problems. Why on Earth, for example, do I own six pairs of blue jeans, why, why? I wear only one of them, always the same because the other five don’t even fit (they never did. Why did I bought them on the first place? Am I insane?) Why did I collect eleven pieces of shirts that all give me that inappropriate looks of bursting breast buttons you can read about in cheap erotic novels? Why, why can’t I accept the fact that with a bra size of 75D the only clothes I should go with are burqas or glitter tops, depending on the situation? And why do I buy books in such raving attacks? I don’t even read anymore.
The truth is, I’m so tired of moving. I’m doing it since more than ten years. I want a constant life, a place which is mine, where painting the walls and putting pictures on them isn’t forbidden, where I can have my own furniture after my own taste instead of that of my landlord, where I have the place to display all my 2000 volumes of books in alphabetic order (even if I don’t read them anymore) and where nobody has the right to bother me with stupid problems like why did I put my name-plate on the right side of my post box instead of putting it on the left side of my post box. I want a lonesome island. I want to own that lonesome island.