What is jealousy made of?

I have no interest in becoming a Brit, it's just the place I want to be now.

In my muddy shoes in Edinburgh,
you kept me from falling on my face.

Being able to see a glimpse of what you have missed out, is it good? Why do I feel like viewing an aquarium of an alternative universe sometimes? Is a sense of loss necessary for a full, wonderful life? Why do I cry at inappropriate times? 

Writing with a pencil makes me feel alive, like I am leaving a mark. Even when the paper I write on gets burnt eventually, the ashes will rise up and become part of the world. It is substance, perhaps... proof of the soul?