Read this, he’s my brother and he’s funny.
To live in a foreign country is to begin a lifelong discovery of the self. Only when you have experienced another culture directly can you truly reflect on what it means ‘to be me’, and even then, the existential questions of ‘why am I me?’, ‘who would I be, if I weren’t the self that I am?’, and ‘where is the me that I am truly from?’ can only be pondered; they will never be answered.
If you’re still reading (and part of me wishes you weren’t; shame on you), you should be fuming. The previous paragraph is pure bollocks. It was deliciously enjoyable to write but, hopefully, excruciating to read. Living in a different country is confusing, embarrassing and fun. Perhaps it’s the confusion that provides most of the satisfaction. It’s a bit like dreaming; you see things that you understand in isolation but when you put them together…
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