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Life is too short for boring stories

Inspired by Kieran Halpin „Nothing to show for it all“

People enter our lives. Some are left just before they leave. Others, on the other hand, accompany us a long distance, but at some point the paths lead us apart again. Sometimes the farewell is easy for us, especially when it happens creepily. Modified living conditions. One pulls away, far away, and slowly, secretly, quietly and quietly, the contact falls asleep. Sometimes it is hard and we are suffering from this farewell, feeling as torn as if we had removed part of our self. A painful wound remains, which heals only slowly. Sometimes, however, such a departure is also a relief because some people burden us and hinder our development. But then there are always the very special ones that gently take us by the hand that make us be, not just like us, because that is not enough, but that encourage us to grow, which show us our possibilities, so that we become what we can be. But if it is so that people enter our lives just to leave it again, would not it be better not to meet, because then one does not have to suffer the pain? What remains of an encounter when it has passed?

It remains the memory. Not by holding back to it, but in situations where scenarios are comparable, there is a sentence, a hint, a finger, which reminds us how to deal with it, so that we can. Then you are suddenly present again. You can be so far away, at this moment you are back with me. Here I walked with you. Here you have drawn my attention to a cloud which has the form of a horse, at least with a lot of imagination, and suddenly I know what we have been talking about, as if I were standing by and listening. Perhaps now a smile flits over my face, a smile of joy, spiced with a little sadness. Because I immediately ask myself why you cannot be here now. Perhaps we’ll find a horse-boulder again. Even if you are somehow there. But I am also glad, for if I had not opened myself to you at that time, and had not given myself up to the meeting, I would have been left with nothing, and nothing could be left. You have touched me, in your presence, and whether you have gone forever, or only for a little while, this touch remains.

 

What remains when I go? Is there anything that remains of me? Is there anything worthy of me to stay? Perhaps it is my stories that still touch, bring people together and tell about the good fortune of being together. Perhaps the touch remains in the people I have encountered, and when they think of me, the time of our togetherness, then hopefully a smile hovers over their face, a smile of joy, seasoned with a little nostalgia. That would be what I wanted that would remain of me.

Merken

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