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Life is too short for boring stories

The empty store

24. Station You

 

There is one, a component in which every life resembles whatever living being it is, from the beginning to the end. The beginning is not so clear and is often discussed, especially since the approach of the beginning, when a life really is a life, can have far-reaching consequences, it is nevertheless on the other hand to take a position. And here, in this small circle, composed of four persons, colorfully spatially, completely different, and yet equal in their attitude to life, and therefore also in this question, prevails unity. Life does not begin with birth, life begins not with conception, but with thought, with intention and hope. This is the beginning, outside the coming life itself, and yet concretized in it. A thought that is life. Word that has become flesh. In all banal physicality without which we could not turn to each other. The end, in turn, is no longer quite clear, but in the vast majority of cases it is death, and between the idea of beginning and death is the time span that encompasses the real life and flows from the starting point to the end point. It’s always like this. From the beginning to the end. A continuous, temporal flow. Basically and generally. The flow of time can neither be slowed down or accelerated, neither stopped nor diverted. He has his appointed bed through which he flows. Basically and generally. Every single life is so.

But in the midst of this fundamentality and universality there is the time of vitality. Not that the real course of time would change. That does not matter. What, however, does matter is the change in us. Time that seems to stand still because we expect a moment longingly and on the other hand, time that seems to be passing in flight because you are simply happy. Moments that break through the river, delight and bewitch. Long-awaited, which becomes reality.

 

Silence had arrived, in the empty shop, which was now not so empty, but also outside. The streets were deserted. Behind the windows, the brightly lit, was Christmas. It was hoped that it was also in the hearts. A long time of expectation had passed, and now an arriving came. A station.

 

„You arrive and think it is the place where you arrive. A station on the voyage, „said Ruben, Lilith’s hand in his.

„There are many stations on the trip, but yes, it is not the place that determines them. Ultimately it is indifferent what stands on the sign above the station. This does not decide whether it is a place of arrival or not. The name does not decide, „said Lilith thoughtfully.

„So many stations we have behind us. Have arrived. It was only a place that ultimately meant nothing, „said Ruben, thoughtfully.

„But when I arrive, where I find a you, a you who calls me you, it’s a life station,“ Lilith explained.

„A life station, regardless of time and place,“ said Ruben.

„A life station, regardless of age and appearance,“ said Lilith.

„A life station, regardless of merit or success,“ explained Ruben.

„And the little child, there in the crib, was such a life station, for many who wanted to see it. Shameful and desolate, in the midst of a loneliness where no one suspects anything other than the evicted and the condemned, even of life, there was such a life station, „said Lilith.

„A station in the middle of nowhere. An open look for everyone. Adoption for everyone. Without regard to the person, only that it was accepted. Openness for everyone. Without entrance requirements, only that it also opened, „said Ruben.

„Nothing more than the one that is answered with the you. A life station, a station of the you, „Lilith said, while her eyes met, acceptance and openness.

„This is Christmas, arrive at a life station after an almost endless journey,“ said Ruben, who found himself in the acceptance and openness of the gaze and replied.

„This is Christmas, arriving at a station you. There’s nothing else to be desired, „Lilith said as she rubbed Rubens’s cheek to feel him. And perhaps in us all is also a piece of the Thomas, the doubter, who first believed when he felt. Or it was just the overwhelming thing that she could still experience a station after she had continued her journey so long that she had already forgotten what the real goal was. Make sure it was possible to stretch out and touch her hand. To stretch out her hand and to touch someone who allowed the touch and gave her acceptance.

 

Station you, assuming with the head, the heart and the hand. Station, this is Christmas, when we accept it, beyond having, as a gift, which we are ourselves, to bring us with us. Nothing but that. All we are. Nothing else. And the infinity, the incomprehensibility of life itself, with all the past, in pure presence, in all its possibilities, cumulated and focused in this one little word, You, which means the whole world.

 

And the Word has become flesh, and dwelt among us. And the word was that You, who took adoption, found home and familiarity. And the word was the corporeality and sensuality of the You in all primitiveness from which she came and comes and will come.

 

They had reached the station. The train stopped. They were exhausted. They had come out of two different trains, but at the station they found themselves, for they bore the same name, for her and for him. How many go on because they do not trust the station because they do not trust themselves. How many miss the station because they have given up and stopped believing. How many do they not perceive, in their inconspicuousness and needlessness. We need nothing more than our own. And more than anything.

 

And on that evening, the shelves of the empty shop were cleared again, so that it was empty again. For everything it needs, which is not for sale, and yet everything that requires life to live is found in it. In you.

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