The Ninth Commandment. You must not have a desire for your neighbor’s house.
Here, the show is tailored for everyone of the Stockholm ethnicity. Few ethnic groups talk more and more about housing. Our satisfactory housing fixation is difficult to treat because we are serious and happily share a dependence on all home addicts.
You cannot get enough of a burnout from home prices that go beyond comprehension and living income. You have friends who like to close their eyes to what the neighbors got from their hideouts, perhaps in the hope that they can spend their money home.
Not even the epidemic will remain for us Desire for other people’s home. It just goes, from tariffs to pine trees, from smart square to acre size. Who can be blamed? How can we expect the secular soul to be deity god if even Iba Bush is not able to fulfill the Ninth Commandment?
As a rental activist, I look for kicks on the Housing Agency website. They have scanned the site daily for many years in search of the dream lily. Looking for intensely redwood hut, near the sea, near the park, near the field, near the subway and the night emergency kiosk. Preferably there are about a hundred 18th century squares embedded in lilac, pink and pear.
I severely insulted everyone who stood between me and the few self-disclosed dreamers, thanks to decades of waiting. We would have liked to be the king of the ashes in the housing stories we retold for the youth leadership of the 1920s. Those looking for a group of six men in the third hand to avoid becoming a mambo.
One of the few Instagram accounts that I follow with reverence is called #somewhereiwouldliketolive. It provides a photographic walkway of completely unparalleled homes around the world.
My favorite is the hammock Like a safe boulder, it swings on a glazed balcony at cloud level. Obviously it’s been tampered with, but it still reminds me of my favorite grandmother’s hymn “I have heard of a city above the clouds, on earthly lands covered in fog.” A funeral hymn that matches well with the homes you’re dying for.
In fact, you heard me say this week, “Here I can die.” After decades in a barely livable yard, I come close to dreaming. The second in Tumba is not a hundred square meters, but has a balcony and the traces of a prehistoric brick fireplace. It is not close to the sea, squares or subways. But it is fairly close to the gravel road, lake and shuttle.
Regardless of whether the trip ends here, I wonder if I am cured. Do I stop longing to plaster others? Do I, like tinderfreaks, stop scanning housing sites for something else – or someone else – now that I have a lollipop? Did you find a home of mine and not my neighbor?
Here it is good to be.
is reading More kåserier by Jessica, For example On the longer withdrawal of the Eighth Commandment.