Here you will read my story big problem of the recent years with first as AI edited with the next part being the original polished with a grammar checker
----------- the pompous IA version . I like it.
A DXer's Lament: Trapped in a City of Noise
For over 40 years, the airwaves have been my playground. As a DXer, I've chased distant signals, logging countless stations and sharing my discoveries with radio clubs worldwide. But now, my passion is trapped in a city of noise, a concrete jungle that stifles the whispers of the world.
My journey began in the mountains, where the air was clear and the only interference came from my trusty router, its high-pitched hum a constant companion. Then, we moved to a village nestled near the majestic Olympus, where the noise subsided and the world opened up.
With an external antenna reaching for the sky, I reveled in the symphony of the airwaves. From the Italian Marconi to the Ethiopian whispers on 7110, each signal was a treasure, a testament to the magic of radio. QSL cards, tangible proof of my connection to faraway lands, filled my collection.
But fate, it seems, had other plans. We returned to the city, where the walls closed in and the airwaves became a cacophony. My equipment, once a source of joy, now sits in a box, a silent reminder of lost opportunities.
The TV's incessant chatter drowns out the faint whispers of distant stations. The small space offers no room for my antennas, no haven for my ears to escape the urban din.
Yet, the DXer in me refuses to be silenced. I cling to the memories of clear skies and exotic voices, the thrill of the hunt, the joy of connection. I dream of open spaces and quiet nights, where the airwaves once again sing their siren song.
Perhaps, one day, I will break free from this concrete cage and return to the world of DXing. Until then, I will keep the flame alive, nurturing the hope that the whispers of the world will once again reach my ears.
Additions after Sept 2025
And finally, in mid-September 2025, my wife left her parents’ home — the last familiar place that still carried an echo of our past — and stepped into what I now call the rabbit hole. It is a space barely 15 square meters, after subtracting the twenty more that furniture and boxes have already dominated . Inside this confined world, three and one souls must coexist for a time no one can yet define.
The flat itself is a modest 1+2-room unit, tucked in the middle floor of an eight-plus-three-storey building of sixty-five flats — a vertical hive where every wall hums with other people’s lives. Even something simple, like running a cable or raising an antenna to the terrace, has become a small odyssey. We know no one here — not a single person to ask for advice or to share a conversation aboiut on how to install a n antenna system in the terrace . The verandah is too narrow to stretch even a loop of wire, and there’s no corner near the room where I could dream of setting up a radio.
Meanwhile, the room our daughter once called her own in the old flat remains frozen in time. Her belongings still wait there, like witnesses of what was once a stable life. The DX gear, the antenna cables, the Large literature — all of it scattered or packed away, impossible to restore to its rightful place. Those instruments were more than metal and wire; they were my connection to the world, my window into distant voices carried by the air.
Now, the only way to listen — to truly be a listener — is through the PC, through remote receivers that whisper signals from faraway lands. Yet, even in this new place, there are few new sounds to chase. Only the Greek pirates drift across the frequencies, their wild transmissions like ghosts of freedom defying the silence.
It’s strange — how the passion that once filled entire rooms now has to fit inside a single screen. Each move, each relocation, feels like a chapter closing — the world shrinking just a little more. Still, I tune in. Because DXing was never only about distance. It was about connection — proof that somewhere, beyond the static, someone is still transmitting.
So think well about what is written here before you reply. These are not just words; they are the echoes of a man who refuses to lose his frequency in the noise of change.
-------------ORIGINAL TEXT "trapped in the noise and a false fate"
