Life is too short for boring stories

We have gone out without a fight. It happens. Even or just because the arriving will be there, of which we went out. It is not declared as a goal because we have left behind the sphere of accomplishment, almost at all costs. It is the way to go. From that point to another. Maybe a home, but at least an asylum. Like life itself. Going out and arriving. The between has to be lived, the way to be gone.

Go. You go before me. I follow you. In your tracks. You have the strength I have not yet. One foot in front of the other. I put my foot on the spot where yours was before. Deeply you are sunk because you still bear the weight that you have imposed on yourself as well as that which you took over. Still, your steps are safe. It costs a lot of strength to advance and the following the way to open up. I am still behind you, because I lack the strength. Now and then you stop and look around. Think about it, be careful, and then take the next step. Sometimes it is harder to decide. The underground is deceptive. Sometimes it is quite easy. It may be that it is quite obvious, so even I would have seen it, or there is only one way. Even if it is not pleasant. It is easy to go. One day, I think, when I’ve studied you enough, I can go to your side and go with you. If you get tired, I will go before you and relieve you of the burden when I have found the strength. Together, hand in hand, so the load is distributed, which we take over and which we give ourselves. It is easier to wear together. But I do not trust it. Not yet.

Because you’re holding. We stop. It is the familiarity that tells us that it is exactly the right place. Here. Is not here always the right place? Not just because there is no other. You lie under a tree, cross your arms behind your head. You, as I know, close you from the place where I sat, a little apart from you. You also need space to breathe. You should be allowed to be for you too. It follows. From time to time, my aimless look also passes by you. Objective and yet perceptible. The feet, which you fixed firmly on the ground, as if you had to drill into it, leave the ground, because you extend the legs. You realize that you still do not slip away. You look up into the crown of an old tall tree. You involuntarily take your arms out of your head and spread them out. Like the branches in the crown. Perhaps it is what is meant by the crown. Not the crown of creation, but the crown in creation. It is good to rest under it. For a while as it shields, but also lets the light through. Dosed.

You have done so far, because you can leave the fight and the tension behind you. The load you are carrying slips from your shoulders. Your breast raises and lowers itself. It’s freer, lighter than before. You are as far as the ground around you and the crown, as far as heaven and life and love, so that everything has space in it that had to struggle so far. Everything and the more than everything. It carries, tolerates, in the expanse. Confidence, finally just trust. Was it really so hard? It dwells in the crown in the creation. A leaf sails slowly, rocking in the wind. I watch how it is. Then I only notice that you are looking at me, with the smile in your eyes, which is to tell me that everything is good, here and now, and that I have been looking for in vain for so long. Since I only notice that I have observed you. I quickly see away. Because I do not want to disturb your peace. Not even through a glance. Only then do I notice that it is not disturbing, because it also has clearance in the wide space.

And as we rise to go on, the burden has not diminished, but it has spread itself differently, in the expanse that you have gained. It’ll stay with you. As usual, I expect you to go ahead, but then I just do it. On the same level. Next to you to go. I still need your hand. A while. Or longer. But it is possible to find the way, protected by the crown in the creation.


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