Life is too short for boring stories

I wanted to get away, just get away, leave everything behind me, the malice and the mockery, the hostility and animus. At first I tried it in the Waldviertel, but even there, there seemed to be no one who did not know me. So I decided to continue thinking, because it was no longer relevant to my work from where it was done. Barnabas was of my opinion. Of course he was my opinion. How much I appreciated the fact that he accompanied me in all my ways, supported me and pulled me together. He had a way of assuring me of myself, as I had never before experienced it. With him at my side, I felt firm and strong, courageous and invincible, even though it was only within my four walls, and I hardly took a step outside the door, but for what I should do, I finally had everything I needed around me, my laptop, my thoughts, and Barnabas. Actually, I was lucky all around, if people did not believe they had to interfere and tell me what was right and wrong, to tell me how to live right, decent above all.

But what did they know about me and my life? What did they know right or wrong? Should not everyone live as he wanted? I admit, I’ve been talking about this, my life with Barnabas, but I’ve just told. Am I therefore already responsible for the fact that there are other women who want nothing more than to be happy? Can I do something for it to develop as it has developed? They have read about my experiences and made a decision for themselves. It would not have been that I had given them anything. I did not even make a recommendation. And tell me, you’ll probably be allowed to, my own story.

Of course, a causal link can be constructed between reading my narrative and the subsequent decision. But on the other hand, if the relations were really so good, it would probably not have come to this decision. They all have their lives in their own hands and decide for themselves. I have nothing to do with this. This is all their own business, and yet they are trying to blame me. Countless sleepless nights prepared me the way I wrote about the sleepless nights and debated with Barnabas. Of course, I took it to my heart and felt responsible at first, but Barnabas took this responsibility, pointing out to me that I had told about our co-operation, nothing else. I admit, my crime is to have told a story, a quasi-love story. I mean, to Barnabas I would never say that, quasi, because otherwise he would be sad, but here I can do well. He always looks over my shoulder when I turn him on, but now he can rest. I cannot always claim it.

And even if I am completely innocent of the current situation, I will retreat. Not only in the Waldviertel, further out, into a country where no one knows me, where no one has ever heard of this story, into a country where I can live unmolested, without being stalked at every step with unfathomable prejudices, yes, prejudices and reproaches. In a country with a different language, remote and outlying. I will retreat to a country where there are more animals on the pasture than people, in a country that is not contaminated by tourists. There I will look for a nice little house and pull myself back completely.

Yes, I admit it, I ran away. Not because I had broken something, although I felt like a criminal, but because I could not feel safe in my own house. Far away I would go, the best way to find a place where I could move freely again. It was not hard to find this place, and Barnabas gave me right in everything.


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