Die ballade der schwarzen schafe.

I love the democratic scruffiness of this place, the sanctuary from where I have observed the ridiculousness of human life for almost quarter of a century.

Here, I found support for values that are intrinsic to my identity and for which, out there, there is little empathy.

Here is the harbour for my dreamy unlucrative reflections.

Here, the place that satisfies my desire to withdraw, to be quiet, to stake out some limited controllable space, to avoid the soul sickness, the dragon’s den Darwinism at the centre of a competition obsessed, poisoned, overcrowded society.

Here, I come to terms with the world’s indifference to our lives, its brutal sentimentality.

I now understand what Pascal meant when he wrote.

“The sole cause of man’s unhappiness is that he does not know how to stay quietly in his room.”

Here, I cultivate a formidable and consoling ignorance about how the world works.

Run now, run then from the oppression of reality with its dislocation of past, present, and future.

This nervous craving, this desire, is not a treatable neurosis.

These walls have shielded us from bored utterances and the Protestantism of Arbeit Macht Frei, from the thought police, the guardians of moral welfare, with their puritanical hard ideas of truth, their attention to rules, their imperatives, and prohibitions.

Don’t play their power games.

Here, a fusion of the marvellous and the mundane, sculpted me into a kind of professional unauthorised person, courting both solitude and intimacy in glorious self-absorbed conversations.

Tread carefully, do not equate withdrawal from the world with peace.

Inner voyeur demons love to watch a recluse slip quietly into madness.

This house is part of our identities, it is and always has been more than a roof over our heads.

Out there we dim our curiosity, become part of a sober, monotonous normal.

In here, there‘s room to be weird, inquisitive, creative, to practice, study, be idle, experiment with magic and superstition, to discuss religion and politics around the dinner table.

It doesn’t have to be pretty or beautiful.

This haven for lost souls, addicts, irresponsible bohemians, artists, paupers, and poets has witnessed triumphs and tear inducing awfulness.

It‘s more than a roof over our heads, a caretaker of our emotional and psychological needs, an antidote to the evils of the city.

It has enabled us to avoid ugliness and stupidity, the vulgar realities of life.

A space to reflect and observe, to form acerbic thoughts about humanity, with its meanness, coarse manners and vulgar passions, a craving for things on which happiness never depends.

People find themselves, lovers meet and part, children are conceived, careers and businesses built, here, where life is found amongst beauteous shabbiness.

Look at this old place through fresh eyes, appreciate its fugitive beauty, with wonder and gratitude, its renovating virtues.

Feel the layers of history beneath your feet, the smells, and textures, be consoled, sustained, and uplifted.

Like all things of beauty it has been threatened by darker forces.

It withstands strife inside and war outside.

It has allowed many to make sense of pain, to contemplate the meaning of beauty and happiness.

When one encounters beauty, a desire to possess it is never far away.

Although this place is in each of our hearts, it cannot be ours.

We must pass it on to the next generation of debauched bohemians facing penury.

Joe Lucking writes for Theatre, Radio, and Screen. You can find him on twitter @joelucking66