Life is too short for boring stories

I turn the key carefully in the castle. Once. Twice. Pull it off. Press down the latch again to make sure that I have actually blocked. It would not be necessary. It is necessary, because since I knew that it was time to complete and go, I was a little confused. There was no back. The finality pressed like a heavy burden on my shoulders. Nevertheless, I did everything I had to do with the utmost care. I left my time because I hoped. But what was that hope for you, where you had told me myself?
“Lock it and throw the key away!”

Yes, you said that. It was not absurd or unexpected, and yet I resisted it. Insofar as one can resist the inevitability. Also against facts. Just a little bit. Not necessarily sustainable. Just leave a little too much time. Shadows played deceptions to me. Fooled. It was only the leaves that moved in the wind. My eyes wander up to the tree tops. The leaves move. Nothing else can be heard. No birdsong, no insect whitening. But perhaps I cannot hear it, for your voice sounds sweet and gentle in my ears. Like a tinnitus. I shake my head as if I could shake off the voice. As if I could shake you off, but it does not help. I still cannot make up my mind.

Do you remember when you took me by the hand and me, step by step? Under our feet was the path and our encounter formed the foundation. With each time, with each experience, we added a piece. Foundation, supporting walls. An exciting time of approaching and learning. You know what? Smiling, I turn to you. No, you’re no longer there. The smile disappears again. Perhaps it will return when I manage to leave the pain behind me and see the house as that which is our memories. Perhaps one day I will be able to turn to myself and rejoice, but I am not yet ready.

Do you remember, when you took me with you, over the threshold we are living on? Full of joy and laughter, hope and confidence, curiosity and openness to all that this house would still adorn. It was not finished yet, long not finished, and actually I thought it would never be finished as eagerly as we were building. Sometimes there were whole rooms, and then again only a small ornamental object. Nothing was important or unimportant. Every single part, no matter how big or small, made it distinctive and unique. Do you still know how well it did to see it, to understand? I do not like it, but it will return.

Do you remember when you invited me to live with me in this house? No matter where we went, it was with us and we, within ourselves and around us. Every laugh and tear, every joy and every sadness took place in it, ornamented it with a living pattern. We felt well, I thought at least. It was probably so. It’s always like this. So long until it is no longer. I will not despair and not whine, but who could take me now, since you were the one who always did it when I was sad. Only this sadness has no place in your embrace.

“Lock it and throw the key away!”
Yes, you said that. The key weighs in my hand. It feels easily. I’ll get out and do what you’ve done to me. But the hand does not let go of the key. Once more I look at it. Shortly, I put it in the pocket. I can still throw it away, later, when I’m ready. Or I can one day simply return and rejoice that it was.


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