Life is too short for boring stories

Simply she was there. As always. Simply there. I had made a round of the lake and came back to my living room. The fire burned in the fireplace and she sat on the couch reading. Every time she sits and reads.

“Why do you always read when you’re alone?” I finally asked, because I was struck by the thought that you can do nothing but read when you are alone. Slowly, she turned the book over and put it with the cover up, striking to herself.
“What else should I do if I’m alone?” She replied, her eyes revealing interest.

“Looking out at the window, looking at nature, what surrounds you. I mean, I like to read too, but now and then I put the book away and just look around, and I read not only in the room, but also outside, “I tried to explain while I saw that an almost compassionate Smiling her lips around. I want to call it this time for me, because it would be better to take offense, but I was on this day of good things and transfigured so much into the positive.

“And I see something out there that is not in the books?” She asked further, “Everything I see out there or around me is natural, unprepared, almost uncultivated, but in my books, there it is exactly described, one by one. The author takes me by the hand and makes me see all the essentials. It takes me almost the work from me to work the hard. The sunset, magical, mysterious, sets in front of my mind’s eye. A person who is met with me is described in every detail, and I learn things which I probably would not have noticed if I had seen the person before me. And if I forget something about it, I can look back and see how it now behaved. I can not turn back in my own memory and return what has been overlooked. In the books it is solid and secure. My perception and experience, on the other hand, are completely inadequate. “

“I do not like it when everything is taken away when every detail and every detail is written. If the lines remain open for my own pictures, then the story begins to live and thus inspire me. So she really becomes a story that concerns me. I want to be able to breathe while reading and not be stifled by the author, “I replied thoughtfully.

“You have to have your own experiences and pictures. You have to look around and have a look at yourself, “she interjected,” and I’ll save it all, I’ll take it all away from someone who understands much more than I do anyway. “

“So is this second-hand life enough for you?” I asked once again to get certainty, “the life of the deputy, which never really strengthens but also does not approach?”

“Yes, I will. But am I so alone there? “She asked and eyed me urgently. It was a tired look, which betrayed that I had already asked her too much. I quietly closed the door behind me and went out to the lake. I knew she was going to take the book back, but it was too little for me to rinse like a cow, what someone else heard, laughing too little, laughing and crying, rejoicing and feeling the pain, not enough to be. Maybe there are people who do, but it was too little for me. I want to be affected and live my life, with all the inadequacies and omissions, with all the uniqueness and personal experience. I want to live. I want to be. I want to say I am.


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