Life is too short for boring stories

I have gone, my meadow, the black chair, my almost finished thoughts, and leaving you, above all, behind you.

I have gone, and no new thought was to be found, for the wound had not yet healed.

I have gone, long and far, to find a new virgin untouched meadow, but I found none, and probably not, because my gaze was glued to the past.

I’ve gone to find a new encounter, but your picture was, and it stood in the way, standing in front of the other faces, as if there was only one thing, yours.

I have gone, saw the summer end, and also the autumn.

What was the matter with all this coming and going? What was it all about, with all its becoming and passing away? What was the matter with all life and death? What did it have to do with all that breathing, always in and out? I was more distant from any answer than ever before.

I went, and in a moment I looked up, and realized that I was back where I had come, on my meadow. It had changed, was reassured under a thick snow cover. Just as I had covered my black chair and my almost finished thoughts with a corpse, it was now all my meadow.

I have walked barefoot, over this corpse of virgin white snow, who could not bring back my innocence to my meadow, nothing can bring lost innocence, at most make appearances.

I walked barefoot, over the white snow, without leaving a trail, without sinking, as if the snow would refuse me, do not accept me, go back to going.

I walked, barefoot, over the white snow, to the place where I suspected the black chair and almost finished thoughts.

I have gone to cut down the snow-cover, uncover what was not to be revealed, and under the corpse I found it, completely intact.

I have gone, far and long, just to return again, as if I could not help myself, since I had gone without having finished. I tied the chair to my back, put my almost finished thought on it, and covered both the corpse with the corpse, in the midst of my life, to see death, warning and enforcing. The snow cover closed seamlessly. And when I looked up, I saw you, at the other end of the meadow, which had once been mine, which now rejected me so brittle. You were in action, as always. I could not remember ever seeing you different.

I have gone, over the snow scratching me, to the other end of the meadow, to thee.


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