Life is too short for boring stories

You meet me. You sit with me for a while. Or you accompany me, a little way. You look at me, and by noticing that your gaze is not passing by me, but staying, I want you to understand, understand what I was, what I am, and where my step goes.

So I begin to tell stories that have happened, stories that we are, coming into being, and stories, that I’m hoping to become reality, hoping and dreaming and longing. I show you my pain and my joy, my fear and my confidence, my lostness and my bondage, my sadness and my longing, showing you the pictures in my head. I tell you and open up a door to what my reality, my view of things, my world is, open a door to myself and being.

And by telling you, I want you to tell me, stories that have happened, stories that we are, in the process of being born, and stories that you are hoping for, dreaming, and longed for. You show me your pain and joy, your fear and your confidence, your lostness and your bondage, your sadness and your longing, telling me the pictures in your head. You tell me and open up a door to what makes your reality, your view of things, your world, open a door to yourself and being.

I want to be able to enter, as I ask you to enter, to recognize and to reveal, to grasp without holding, without recognizing it, for being is always being in becoming, is change, is growing, is becoming. In narrative we develop. Whether toward or away from each other? Who knows. But we will dare! For without danger, there can be no approach, without the precept of entrusting me.

Only in the narrative can we understand one another, can a we grow. There is no other access to each other, and I do not want to lose it, this access to you, do not want to close it, this access to me. I wish we would never stop telling stories, never stop going towards each other.

The door is open, to my world and to me. Get in and go. You will find yourself new and changed, because the stories leave traces, re-shape you and your understanding. Your gaze becomes farther and your tolerance becomes greater, before the other and its even-self-being, which approaches you narrating to become thee you.


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