Life is too short for boring stories

You have never seen me otherwise than in immediacy. Never have you perceived me differently as in the direct opposite. Was there any division between us? Was there ever something that could have seriously blocked the way to each other? Was there ever someone who had the strength to force us to look away from each other?

The look that penetrates into you, explores you, and comes back again. There is so much non-I, all that you are, which is gathering together. And so I became in you, and you were in me. Increasing obscurity. There was no beginning. There will be no end. The moment has steered us. Without touching gentleness. We have found it, even if it has always been, at the beginning of the night. And it was our night.

Pale moonlight. Burning flames to us. Gentle starlight. It is a delusion, indeed, that comprehends us completely, so that we spread out our arms and raise ourselves upwards, far in excess of ourselves, beyond us, far beyond ourselves, until the firmament appears small, like the lake . Clasping, always eyes in sight, clinging to each other, firmer than hands could ever be, understanding one another, visualizing, and when the morning dawns and the night leaves us, I sleep while you rise again.

“Thank you for this night of miracles,” you say quietly.
“Miraculous, yes, but the miracle we are, we alone, inspiring, expanding, without slipping into profanity, we, alive,” I hear me answer, while I feel that sleep gently surrounds me. Sleep, it weaves a fine net, hardly perceptible, but still holding.
“We are inside ourselves. You give me comfort and I, for in you, as you are in me, we are saved, at home, kept, protected. This is the night which ours, and this word, which is no longer in saying, because we live it continually, is my morning. Dearest, night and day, there and there, I am there, in our house, which we are, and that is so much more than the wood and brick which we have built it from. Our bodies are our temple,” you told me.
“The morning you give me, I will return it to you, that we have it both. The night of our indelible connection, the night of our becoming and being, the night that belongs to us, the night that marries us. Hiding worldly categories, mocking the desperate attempts to understand, for which there is no place and no time in the world. Where would there be room for timelessness in the whole tyranny of being hunted? Where would the place be for the non-place, the utopia? Impossibility – it is impossible, this our co-existence, which will be so unprecedented, and will always remain a mystery to us, “she says, almost dreaming, perhaps already dreaming.
“You me,” you speak to me.
“You me,” I tell you.

The morning gift, we are ourselves, nothing limiting, nothing symbolic, which only means possession, but pure freedom and boundlessness in coexistence. This is the morning gift of truth, the night to the light, the moon to the sun, from me to you.

The morning gift after the one and only night that spans all eternity and leaves nothing, everything includes everything, as long as it means being.


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