I dream of a house. This house smells of earth, sun and something familiar. It has large windows, lots of light and greenery. Not just a couple of pots on the windowsill, but a real greenhouse. With vines hanging from the ceiling, citrus trees, and herbs growing in the kitchen right by the window. I want the house to breathe plants. So that every morning starts with their green touches to my eyes, while I'm still just waking up.

I'm 18. I don't study, I don't work, and no, I'm not lazy. I'm just not in a hurry yet. I live slowly. I drink tea on the balcony in the morning, listen to the wind stirring the laundry on the rope of the neighbors, and think about the future. Not about a career, not about diplomas. It's about the house. My. The present.

I have a lot of questions about life. They accumulate in me like raindrops on glass. Some are simple: "Why do we forget what is important?", "Why are people afraid to be themselves?". And some of them are like endless labyrinths: "How do you understand who you really are?"