Life is too short for boring stories

The memory of you flows through me like a warm summer rain, sweeping me from all the gloom, everyday life, and normality. A summer rain in a desert landscape that lasts for months after rain, but as soon as the first drops hit, it blossoms in the most splendid colors, for a short while. The short while that includes the memory of you with me. Summer rain, which hits the window, that one quickly closes, not only to keep the water out. Not anyway. But to see how serene and happy these little drops jump on the window pane, and immediately re-emerge as if it were not glass, not metal, but a trampoline. One for each of these little funny guys. And I sit behind the closed window watching them at their cheerful play. It makes you want to play along. Summer rain, which cools down and makes you want more. For a short while that was then, and which I take to encourage me. This memory of you with me.

The memory of you with me is like a warm summer rain that breaks the brooding heat and gives nature and the people with life, cools and refreshes, briefly and sustainably. For it was these few hours, but it was not hours in the proper sense, but one of time. As if the world had sunk around us. I go in the thought the way. Every single step. I am talking about our conversation. Every single word. I know our reasoning. Every single look. I laugh our joy. Every single laugh. Everything is well anchored in my memory. And it was until we came back into the world and into the time. As the sun rose. It was no longer. It was all. It was everything and much more. It was more than anything.

The memory of you with me is like a warm summer rain, which surprised us when we are with the boat in the middle of the lake. But there is nothing to fear. Neither shudder nor lightning, neither storm nor hail accompany him, only the refreshing, invigorating effect of the cooling wet. It surprises us by taking a walk or by the lake or simply in the middle. Far from any occasion. Just because. So we spread our arms to receive it. A smile of enchantment on the face. And at the end stands the rainbow. The pot of gold has long been found.

The memory of you with me is like a warm summer rain that approaches and is there without warning. Just because. I welcome him as a good friend. The best friend. And I say good-bye without grief. It will return. It gives me the rainbow and the confidence for a goodbye. Then the flowers wither again, lie down in the parched desert landscape of the everyday transience, but ready to blossom at any time. When it comes back, flow through me, to flow me.

Then I take your hand and invite you to walk through this wonderful summer rain of our memories, hopping barefoot through the damp grass, like the little raindrops, invite you into the memory of yourself with me, invite you to the world and the time to leave and be.

You are the warm summer rain that makes me free and breathes and makes me think of myself, because your affection has led me into the security, your laughter into the joy and your understanding into a confidence. So I bloom like the flowers in the desert after long drought. You are, in this memory, nothing more than a co-existence, and yet forever everything.


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