Life is too short for boring stories

“How many years are it now? How much time has passed since that day, whether it be seen as promising or disastrous? “I ask you as we sit on the terrace and let the view fly into the uncertainty.
“A question of intuition,” you explain.
“A question of taste. So how much? “I mean.
“A question of the time”, you explain.
“Now, and here, I ask you how long?” I ask.

“Today, now, here, neither, nor, neither promising nor fatal. We have both behind us, the promise and the doom, after twenty years or so, “you finally answer without taming the gaze. I do not.
“Almost twenty years. It does not matter anymore, a year up or down, after almost twenty years. It used to be different, “I say simply.
“In the beginning, it was different, every day, every minute, even the smallest moment, seemed to decide whether it was good or bad. It was euphoric or deepest souls, but today it flows. It does not matter anymore, “you explain.
“At that time, cramped, wedged together, excluding the world, which always wanted to creep in again and again, which did not leave us alone, and we wanted only that, the world outside and we inside, entirely for us forever, “I remember.

“But it’s not enduring, not even for prolonged periods, and then only forever? There was so much promise in your eyes, in your confidence, in your love … “
“Just as in your look, in your confidence, in your love,” I interject.
“But you become suspicious. Perfect, that’s not possible. But that was what we wanted, but it does not work. One cannot always be happy, and then still expect it to be the other in harmony. And we realized that it is not possible. That made us angry, “you say.

“Yes, at first angry, then came the disappointment, the disputes, and then the reproaches. You would not have tasted enough. You would not love enough. And they wanted to restore this promise. Spasmodically tied to it, which has long been lost, until the nails into the flesh and the ankles ache, “I explain.
“And then, finally, you open your hands, let go, not even from conviction, but because the cramping leaks and consumes. You let go because you are exhausted to realize that there was nothing left. And then you think you’re empty-handed, completely empty, and you see yourself in the middle of the doom, “you say, thoughtfully.

“But then you stop, you stop to expect and to demand and cling to ideas that are not even your own, but those that you have learned somewhere. You say, now it does not matter. Nothing comes, nothing at all. You lean back and take it the way it is, “I explain.
“And when you have let go, finally, and no longer tense, but relaxed, and when you have got rid of everything and look around without prejudice, what is recognizable is what it is, then you finally realize that this is the best of all possibilities, “you say.
“And they have always been, or nearly, after fifteen years or ten or five years, or almost exactly. It was always there. Perhaps it seemed just too banal, too impassive to carry a life, “I explain.
“But life does not have to be borne and the other is not to be borne, but assumed in the seeming irrelevancy of the eternally equal. So I love you, amidst the banal and simple, “you say.
“I love you because you share with me the banality and the insignificance gains in dignity, for life itself is not fixed on a single heroic deed and done with it, but on the continuation of the currency through all the years.” I, and the silence surrounds us. Full of expectations, yet completely unpretentious, full of goals, and yet aimless, we live because we appreciate love just in its insignificance.


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