WHERE AND WITH WHOM AM I?

WHERE AM I?

I can no longer call myself 'a journalist'. I don't have my columns anymore.

However, looking from that kind of view licks my wounds. Staying in this camp with the vocational perspective. 

Common toilet.

Common bathroom.

Common kitchen.

Thirty-five families, each one from different country.

From Syria,

From Afghanistan,

From Iraq,

From Somalia,

From Nigeria, all makes thirty-five stories.

Women, gave their children birth on their own in this country.  Whom came from Nigeria, whom came from Somalia... They are alone like I am. Their spouses are in Italy. 

Whom from Afghanistan, a huge family with ten children...

A place that breaking apart from tactlessness makes me question my intention.

Everywhere is dingy. So muddy!

I have no one to call 'my dear friend' around me, except my prayers.

Sometimes, even when I talk or text to people I get impertinent... Sometimes I take offense, sometimes I misunderstand, sometimes I get into unnecessary talks. As a conclusion, I withdraw into my shell.

Time, is time for obligatory retirement.

My feet are stable but my mouth is dumb.

Take root, giant plane tree.

Take root!