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Life is too short for boring stories

The sunlight makes the air flicker. I wake up under the olive tree under which we bedded. How long have we slept? I dont know. It is summer. I do not know more. More I do not need to know. We live with the change of seasons. Spring is coming and summer is coming. Summer is passing and autumn is coming. Autumn is passing and winter is coming. We live with the blossoming and dying of nature. I turn to you. You’re still sleeping. I want to caress your cheek, but I leave it at the thought, for you are exhausted. You have a difficult task before you. You shall not awake before time. It’s not time yet. It has all its time. Now is the time for you to sleep, a little still to recover you. Still, it is not time.

The snow fell in thick flakes from the sky. For weeks it had snowed. Winter had been an unusually long time. It was becoming increasingly difficult to find something in the forest. One day I was on my way to collect firewood, and when I returned to my hats with this one, you lay in the snow just outside the door of my hut. I dropped the wood and dragged you into the hut. Half frozen and weakened, wounded in body and soul, I laid you on my bed. I warmed you and examined your wounds. Your sick, famished body was strewn with bruises, and the fever greatly affected you, but there was also a pain that went much deeper than the physical, much deeper all your open wounds together. It was the pain in you that pervaded your way in wild fever fantasies. You were not conscious, and yet you were speaking all the time, words that were not definable. He wanted to get out of you, this pain, which could not be articulated.

You open your eyes, blink blinded in the sun. Fine shadows stand out on your face and also concern. Still, you smile at me. I smile back. There is no other answer. There is no more to say, if you do not want to destroy it, all that speaks in this smile, and in the look that envelops and protects me, a look that captures and takes me so comfortably and gives me security It only this can. Perhaps she is not long, our story, but every moment of the turmoil, lives in that smile, in that look. More is not to say. More can not be said. More can never be said.

I cleansed your wounds and healed them with herbs, and slowly the winter was still ending. As bitterly cold as he had shown himself, the spring of spring was so conciliatory and warming. Slowly your body recovered and we could go out into the sunshine. Surely I still had to sustain you, but you had recovered, but your mind was still clouded by this pain, which I could not heal with my herbs and associations. And after a long time you opened and told me your story. The pain found a way.

Your gaze still rests in mine, gently surrounds me, and the world is in it, as we are in the world. No matter what we are facing, it is good, where I could experience it, to see and love this kind of intercourse and intercourse.

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