I know many of us face housing problems in London and struggle for existence in a place where a few rich lords control the economy of the many slave.
Here, I fully understand your pain and the pain of many others, who have lost their minds as the result of this form of galling inequality.
However, as a writer who always followed big ideas and learning. And so neglected the ideas of money. Then I have a right to express my pain. Simply because I dare and you don’t.
Simply because I am honest of my pain and my struggle. And perhaps you don’t bother to express your ideas.
So in this blog, I intend to speak of the problems of my life, the struggle and the pain that I live as an author. And at the end, by taking my self as an example of this story and of this experiment. I will show my findings here through a philosophical conclusion.
What is my story, then?
Crammed in a single room in London with 200 books. (supported by one of London’s councils and on purpose left to suffer like this for reasons that I intend to explain in another blog.) My living place looks gloomy, dark and depressive
And simply by living in it and looking around my living place, it makes me feel low, and a bit more than confused and heavy in my head.
And then these feelings stir my anxiety, which in turn give me a kind of panic attack and choking in my throat. Which I try to control by thinking of different ideas. Reading. Or leaving the place all together when I get worse.
Now, worse than my feelings here is the fact that this story escapes the “why.” Why do I feel so? I ask.
Let us, see the condition of living and see if my body reacts spontaneously to its environment.
The space of the room is….