I am now happy enough to live in a house of my own, even in a single room of my own, as I have always loved my books and my things, but in the past - and sometimes still now - there was always another self, that was drawn by some instinct to live adventurously, to live by the skin of my teeth while I still had most of them.
I could have made a great deal more money had I stayed in one place, but I didn't just want to make money - though there were times when I wanted nothing more than to make more money - I always wanted to find that perfect spot in this world before I was carted off to the other one.
There are people who go to the same seaside resort every summer of their lives, and they are - well, that sort of people, and very nice and very sane people they are, too, but with me, boredom always drove me on. I always felt that there was always, always something more which is why I found myself unable to rest. Ever-changing places, ever-changing languages, ever-changing people, and ever-changing jobs, that, for me, was life.
If I had to work to live - and thank God for the necessity! working hard is the passport to an interesting life - a thousand times more I wanted to work in jobs that were ever-changing with people that were ever-changing in places that were ever-changing. I knew that the world would be a chaotic place if everyone were like me, and I feel sorry for and apologise to the people - and the one wonderful person in particular - whom I disappointed along the way, but that was me. I still don't know why.
Of course, one is never really happy travelling; one is most happy in remembering. I now have a lot of time doing that, in my own house, in my own room, having finally become addicted to the worst addiction: comfort.
