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Gently you open the gate. It is still and dark. Your steps echo in the expanse of the room. Do you want to call my name? The vastness makes you dumb. The vastness frightens you. Where should you turn to? There is no way you know, here in my castle. Are you looking for me? Shall I guide you? Shall I approach you? Shall I receive you?

But I do not know about your arrival. I guess maybe. I expect you, quiet and unimpressed, still. Do I really know your arrival? Do I really care about you? What can I know about you? You turn left and hope it is the right way. The walls are rigid and dumb, unyielding and unimpressed. Slowly you feel yourself through the darkness. The walk is long. The first door you pass, but the darkness has not yet come to an end. Whether the way is the right one? Would not you have turned in the other direction? You’re unsure. And I’m sitting in the room with the fireplace. So close were we to each other, so intense were our mutual wishes, and I do not even suspect anything of your arrival. If I had gone against thee, I would have directed thee, if I had taken thee by the hand? Instead, I sit here by the fireplace, look into the fire, perhaps even have the peace to read a book. What do I know about your Towards-Against-Me? What do I know about you?

Stubborn and dumb, unyielding and unimpressed, I seem to be. Maybe I want you to come. I also said, come, but not to the footbridge, but to the castle, here to the fireplace, for it has become cold. Has the cold already taken hold of my heart, to my sinews, that your approach will remain unnoticed. Should it not disturb me? Should it not fill me with joy, alone? I said the invitation and I had done my part.

The ball was now lying with you. Quietly, I sit before the fireplace, while you are disorient in the dark, afraid and insecure. You start asking yourself why you are here? Why did your longing lead you here? What remains of the magic of the promises, if you have to wander alone through these cold passages? Door to door you open, but in every one lives the darkness, the coldness and the emptiness. What do you know about my real will? What do you know about me?

But still you do not want to give up. We have already gone so many ways together, too many to give up. Pictures of the together break into your thinking and give you the strength to go on. Perhaps there is something in me. If you come, I think. I turn to the door. Should not I see if you come? Should I get on my way? Do I know whether my longing is like yours? Do you know whether my yearning is like yours? Have we ever talked about it? Have we ever made a secret of it? Is only the expression?

But perhaps I have not understood it correctly, and in the unspoken merely projected my wishes. The unspoken, you can always understand correctly. Always understand. I cannot blame you. Just as little as you do to me. Do you know if I understood your unspoken? Do I know if I understood your unspoken?

When it finally reached me, the restlessness, me, pushed out into the dark passage. The light falls through the open door. You’re here. I feel your relief. Gently I take you by the hand and lead you to the fireplace. Exhausted, you settle down.

“Hold me,” you say to me without a word, and I’ll take you in my arms. Why do we have to think so much about the simple, the obvious? Why do we like to stand in our way?

“It is good that you are here,” I say, nothing else, and yet there is nothing else to say.

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