Where is my home?

Today I am going to talk about the Czech national anthem. No God Save the Queen nonsense. No, no, no. Our anthem starts with the words, "Where is my home?" And I think it's very fitting. I ask myself this question every day, in my best singing-in-the-shower voice.

Time passes by and I forget more and more Czech words. Every evening, just before bedtime, I apply anti-wrinkle cream: prevents signs of ageing. I hope it will slow down the progress of my forgetting. And every morning, I wake up and shower and sing to myself: "Where is my home?"

Where the fuck is my home?!

At some point, back in the deep darkness of history, someone decided to take a ruler and divide the world into countries. I don't like those borders and I don't care about them. I hop and skip on the map, across the border and back. I kick the Border Line with my muddy boots until it bends. I test its limits. I spit and shit on it until it's all covered up and you can't see it any more. I cross it with my eyes closed. I come and go and I joke with immigration officers.

Good morning, officer.
What is the purpose of your visit?
I'd like to live here, officer. But before you say anything, let me just tell you, I'm not an immigrant. I'm an expat. I refuse to adopt my new homeland, thank you very much. I will not assimilate. I'm borderless. And I don't care much for your profession, Mr. Guard of the Border. Aren't there more important things to do somewhere in this world?

I refuse to be defined by my passport and I refuse to apply for a residence permit. I don't need no approval and stamps from anyone. I belong nowhere and everywhere and I belong to this world. Hop and skip and there and back.

And ...

where the fuck,
is my home?

In London. Now.
But later. Who knows.