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Life is too short for boring stories

The white curtains blow in the summer wind. All in white the room, and when I look out of the window of the bungalow lies the sun-drenched steppes of Tuscany. The gentle breeze gently fills me, playing with my hair.

One day it had been, you entered my life as if it were the most self-evident in the world. Have it filled with happiness and serenity, have brought joy of life and energy into me. Quiet and reserved, I had been before, but you have let me discover, hidden, unveiled, and let me grow, far beyond the boundaries.

One day you were there and loved me for an eternity, a day, an hour, a week, a month, or just a moment. One day it was, and one day it was that you were no longer there. There were no signs. At least I saw no or wanted to see none. I reacted like any abandoned who does not understand what is called abandonment. I waited, and that was long, and perhaps even a moment, but it was, and it passed. It may be that I am still waiting, but the hours normalized, and the curtain is blown by the wind as I think of these 48 hours we spent here. Only 48 hours, which were fulfilled by the pure togetherness. No one thought went out, no look forward or back, only here, just moment, and it was probably the most intense hours of my life, but it was. We drove away again, from this place full of sun, sea and tranquility, back to normal, to the life, which was now to lead.

One day everything was full of joy and indisposition, and one day everything was gone. I waited. You did not come any more. I waited. To you of you. Perhaps also the pain subsided. It’s over, it always says, and time heals all wounds. But the pain does not leave and the wounds do not heal. I only learned to live with it. It was indifferent where I was. So I moved here, one day, into the memory of the greatest happiness, to dive down to the deepest pain. My mouth was dry, dried up, for I thirsted for your presence like the earth in drought after rain, but it got better. I wrote to you, of my pain and my longing, again and again, and piled the letters carefully under my bed. Slowly I got used to the pain, and he reconciled himself with the happiness I was allowed to have reconciled with the longing, which was now no longer measured but precisely measured.

Sometimes I still remember how it was, at that time, and I caught myself with a small smile flitting over my lips as if someone else told me this story when it was young and fresh, and all the hope in it lives. I have no hope left, leave the letters under the bed and know that it was, one day, but I’m not waiting for I to forget. It’s part of my story, and eliminate my story would be to eliminate myself. So I let myself go and give freedom to thought, when I sometimes remember that one day it was you came, and one day you were going.

No one bears responsibility, even less guilt. It was, and it was neither right nor wrong, because what was, was simple, just as that is and that will be. There are no rules, no help, neither for happiness nor for pain. And the waves run sluggishly along the beach, while I decide to go out again, in the same tracks, following the same path. And then this is something I’m still thinking about.

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