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Life is too short for boring stories

Keep still, in the face of the light of the glittering stars and the shimmering moon, in the face of the sparkle of reflection in the water of the pond, in the face of inner permanence, and keep in motion, in the face of the jetty that invites to balance it, in the face of the lush meadow which wants to be experienced with bare feet, in view of the inner urge to give pleasure to physical expression. While we keep still and moving, neither earnestness nor happiness are neglected, and we laugh and cry.

Silence, in the face of the clear, warm night air that gently caresses us, given the calming voices of the night birds and the chirring of the crickets, in the face of calming nature, and telling, in the face of the overabundance of impressions to express and find to be touched by the joy, in spite of everything and besides, that finds its way into the Word, in the face of the inexhaustible response to each other. As we remain in the openness of silence and in perpetual eloquence, we turn to each other, and the laughter carries the crying, as the crying the laughs.

Leaving, in the face of the lived moments we gave and lived, in the face of the moments we filled with ourselves and to fulfill, in the face of the path that led us, step by step, ever deeper into the encounter, and remain, in the face of the lived moment, which can only ever be now, in the light of the moment we open and keep open in the face of the point where we are and turn to each other. As we leave and remain, we notice that even leaving is lingering, because the past, so far, enables the encounter as it happens right now, and the now of experiencing is interwoven with what was, and laughter it is interwoven with crying, like crying with laughter.

Die away, in the face of necessity, also in the progression of life, in the face of the nature that is around us and in us that we are, in the face of releasing for the new that finds its place therein, and become, in light of the thoughts that we give each other, which interweave and separate, reassemble and open new, in the face of the touches in which we communicate beyond the word boundaries, inserted into the whole that calls itself life. As we live through the dying away and becoming over and over again, living in it, the weeping and crying, laughing and crying blends into a spiraling circle.

Let, in the face of the overabundance of what we can be, being in self-abandonment, letting ourselves in on this inspiring individuality, which really needed no further description than you, because we understand it, in the free-letting of the thoughts that, aptly, become sparkling, throbbing ideas, and in abandonment to the ever renewing commitment of who we are, and holding, in the face of the need for the thou, that enriches and expands us, in the face of pain that we always carry within us, in which we can confidently reveal ourselves. While letting go of holding, without limiting or restricting, it is the crying of laughter.

Love, in the face of the world, which is always there and interferes in our encounter, in our togetherness, in the face of the temptation, despite everything, to retreat to the convenience of a matter of course, in the face of the tragedy that thinking repeatedly falls into the categories of possessions and property reduces, and loves, in the face of the familiarity with which we know each other, because we speak and speak out. While we are alive and loving, crying and laughing are intertwined because life is like that, and so is love.

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