We do not fight for abstract concepts - justice, freedom or gods. These are just signboards that politicians, the same version of better costumes, cover a much older, dirty pulse.

As I rolled, I lowered my leg on the first steps of the cement basement, and the face of the face and the moistened Earth was eternity in the face. This descent into the dungeons of an apartment building, into a common area that has never been and will not be common - is a small, domestic war. In the air, not only moisture, but also for decades, was accumulated, unspoken, with a neighbor's tire, too widely pushed by a neighbor, for my own dropped and forgotten broken chair, for a bicycle left outside.

In the palm of my hand, I felt a cold, rusty lock key metal. Its sharp edges turned into the skin - a tiny weapon to protect its square meter of concrete and rotten potato residue. The absurdity. But that absurd was mine.

At the top, people share recipes and greet the elevator, and here at dusk, after a flashing, barely supportive light, the true front line. A neighbor's jars with cucumbers, lined up like a phalanx, pushed my chaotic pile of dear. The mold on the wall, like an old, vengeful goddess, slowly, stubbornly plundered new territories, and no one could stop him. This is where the answer was.

War does not come from hatred to another. It stems from sick love for himself. From the irrational, primitive belief that this patch of land, this jar, this idea or this God is mine. And I better turn everything dust than let's let it touch it.

A short, sharp click. I turned the key in my pantry lock and pushed the door firmly.

Instead of the usual squeak, a dry, tired click was heard. The doors held by rusted hinges and several rotten ladders simply collapsed inside. It is not a bang, but a quiet, dusty sigh. Trucking wood turned into sawdust right in front of my eyes.

My fortress. My Ginta Territory. Everything I had to defend collapsed from my own touch.

I stood in the same twilight, under the same flashing light, but now my kingdom gate has been translated. Not the enemy. My own. In my hand, I was still pressing a lock connected to a debris that was a door frame a second ago.

The key to nowhere.

I won.