Life is too short for boring stories

I wanted, and the willingness, which suddenly flowed through me unequivocally, had a concrete name to reach you. I made my way to the other end of the meadow, where I had recognized you. You were in action and did not notice me, or perhaps do not want to notice. And with the recognition of the will, the snow-cover broke under my bare feet, and I sank in, but I did not let go, however hard it was to lift my feet again, however hard it was to come forward. And the chair, which I had tied to my back with the almost finished thought, became heavier and heavier, so that he pulled me back, so hard that I was afraid to fall, but I did not give up, did not leave me from the snow, where I was sinking to the hips, from the burden that dragged me back.

I wanted, and my desire was to reach you. I was completely filled with this desire; indeed, I was this willing, as if I had nothing else to think, to strive for, or to be, only this willingness to you. Perhaps it has been this returning or this being returned. Perhaps I had never had a choice, and would never have another choice, as long as I had not fulfilled this desire. I would say I have gone to find myself here again, inevitable, indispensable. For no one can escape himself, as Jean Paul Sartre knew to say, not himself and not his will. I had tried to escape from my meadow, my chair, my almost finished thoughts, and especially you, escaped, really, because it hurt so much, so terribly hurt as if you had torn me apart in the middle , at the moment when you uprooted my chair and drifted off my almost finished thoughts. Yes, you broke me, but just to open me, open up, so you could get back and I could be room for your arrival. All you wanted was to reach me, to penetrate to me – in recognizing my willing I recognized your willing. The path had been different, but the goal was the same. And I had to go this way, which took me away, and also led me back to understand and to forgive.

I wanted, and the desire was to reach you. I wanted this wanting, sunk to the breast in the snow, now, bent over, pushed by the ever-increasing burden of the chair, which I had tied to my back with the almost finished idea. I wanted this willing, even when my strength left me, when I fell back into the snow, but I managed to reach out to the goal of my will, to you, and spoke, one thing , life-giving word: “You”


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