Life is too short for boring stories

It had something special, something quite special, some occurrences. For hours now she was sitting there, musing. The fire flickered in the fireplace. There was nothing to say, actually, and yet, in how many varieties, in how many nuances the flames lurched, how they unified and separated again, how they were pleasingly flattered and dispersed. Wherever she looked, she found symbols of what had happened and what was present, which was nothing more than the result of previous decisions.

Decisions to choose one and leave the other, and yet it had something peculiar, something entirely, very own. To choose one and leave the other? Had it been an election? Maybe from anyone or anything. But had it been her choice? She had pondered the longest time, but she could not remember making a choice, and yet it must have been, otherwise she would not sit there, ponder, and observe the ever-changing, yet still the same, game of flames can. Whatever it was, she was sure she had not chosen. But if she had not chosen, who was it? Who had been destined for her and for her live?

Admittedly, it was a good choice, but if she did not know who it was, who should she turn to? Whom should she thank? Or just say that it was good to have chosen so? Who, damn it, was responsible? No, just do not become loud, do not get loud now, because she was afraid that it could be expelled, whatever it was. She had always believed to have the direction of her life, she had always believed that nothing could happen in her life without her hand in the game, or anything to say, or merely give her veto. And suddenly there was nothing left of self-determination, self-responsibility or choice. Everything was wavering, only she did not sway. She knew that she had made this choice, which was not her own, and yet completely changed her life. Perhaps it would have been quite different if she had voted. Maybe or even likely?

She had always thought it a stupid excuse, “I do not know how this could happen, but it happened.” At most a tired smile had wrested her, these cheap, fatal excuses, as she thought. Stringent, straightforward and consistent, these were the magic words which caused that it did not happen that she always made the choice herself – until it hit her. Completely helpless, she faced this situation. How easy it would be now to get out on any numinous powers. Fate or providence, or chance, or God, but that was too much of her helplessness. Pushing it off, just pushing it off and it would have been so easy. But did not these powers have anything better to do than concern about her? Was God so terribly bland that he had to interfere in her life now, so between lunch and afternoon tea, because he could not sleep once again and had been through the crowd of people like ours through the TV channels. It was too meager, even as an excuse. And she looked into the play of the flames, the colors, the movements, and thought that it had not been a choice, no choice and no decision, but a mere event, indeed, overall and above, but an event.


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