Life is too short for boring stories

When we awoke from self-forgetfulness, and realized what and where we were, that we were, we began to analyze, fragment, and argue. What was one, just now, splintered into its parts. There was no longer a movement, the melody that had become ours, from yours and mine, a self-understanding. There is the melody as it is, yours and mine, which is becoming ever softer, the movement, yours and mine, which slows down until it almost dies.

When we awoke there, we looked at each other, and moved a little bit from each other. Something had changed. But what was it? Disbelieving about what happened to us. Should we remember our love? Should we make sure? But who will recall it? So it was the first misstep that came to fruition after awakening. The melodies were no longer voiced, and of course we thought we were.

When we awoke, the melody was played. There is nothing more to dance, where there is no melody. There is no melody where there is no dance. It was just like that. There was nothing to add. Nothing remains. We nodded. As if it were an agreement. Slowly we turned away from each other, one arm turned away from one another, while the other hand was still connected to yours. It is so easy to separate a connection that does not force itself.

It was almost done. Actually, we had already gone, as is so common since the thoughts of the act were running, except that our fingers still touched. Like an omission. Like a reminder. As we turned around again, for, just as we intertwined our melodies, we had untapped them and let the mint sounds march in. But it was what we wanted. Had we entered at first, unquestionably, so we thought we could not be more if we asked. But did we have to accept it, just like that?

It was almost done, as I turned to you again. I saw that you had also changed your mind, that our gazes were, behave, for the possibility of walking, just like that, had made us feel insecure. Maybe it was wanted. It is not visible, only audible in the musical tones, which are forced into the melody that has been harmonious so far. Then I felt that your hand closed again around mine, where only the fingertips touched before, and the movement returned to you and me. Close together, put the step back, put the second arm around you.

Then we understood, at once, that the melody that is ours ends where we end it because we give up the dance, and we have no choice but to give up the dance when we let our melody end. But where we write in the melody, there will be the dance, and where the dance is, we can reproduce the melody that is ours. Until the end. Who knows. Who wants to know? But it can be if we want it. If we are it.


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