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Life is too short for boring stories

Sometimes, I am so full of joie de vivre because I realize how much life has given me. And still gives. This joy wants to get expression. It urges me, because I also want you to understand me, but if this joy is so great that every expression is too small, even so that you understand me correctly, then it is to me as if I had to discuss everything at the same time. Tell. So that the words gush out of me like a waterfall, like a spring, fed by the spring water, which is suddenly overpowering in spring, faster and faster, without me even having enough words to say it all. Especially not the right ones. They are never the right ones, even if they are not wrong. But they are too little, for that enormous power, that kindles the joy in me. Vitality. Power of love. So that I must support my words by embracing you, over and over and interrupting my verbiage to tell you, fittingly or unsuitably, how good it is that you exist in my life kissing you, for another interruption to be, in my own trains of thought, which have no direction or goal anyway, but tumble down and crash over each other and stand in each other’s way and also shove aside pretty cheekily to hug you, and push away from me again so that you mine To see laughter, my radiance for you and life and love and the whole world. And because the joy is far too great to wear alone

Sometimes that’s how it is, and you take it easy because you know me, probably because you know that I’ll calm down once I’m so raving. Maybe also because it gives you pleasure, because one thing is certain, you are not innocent of this joie de vivre. Because there is you in my life and because you just take me as I am in these moments. And I call you my raccoon, because you remain so calm and accepting, even in my exuberance.

Sometimes, because I feel so empty and burned out, so powerless and exhausted, because it is pointless, no matter where you look or what you do, everything seems to evaporate into nothingness, without any resonance. At such moments, I want nothing but to curl up, make myself very small, knees almost pulled up to my chin, and my arms wrapped around it because I’m scared to lose myself, in all the desolation. Because I try to feel myself and even I do not feel myself anymore. Everything is so cold. And then you hug me, you roll around me, and it’s your touch that makes me feel myself again, your hand gently caressing me and giving me an idea of the warmth that can be. I do not want to talk about that. Not a word. Not what it is or why or what triggered it. There is so much, too much, to put it together, in the moment of lostness. You know it and do not ask me not to talk, not to try, what I have to fail for, because it’s too big, too big to put into words. You are completely silent. And that’s all you do. You’re there. And it is all that can be, everything that is needed. And you know it.

Sometimes that’s how it is, and you take it easy because you know me, probably because you know that I’ll find my way back if I’ve gotten stuck long enough. Maybe also because you know about the power of your being with me, because one thing is for sure, you are coming to me, even if I do not know how to accept it in these moments, so you lead me very gently, again, without pressure, without requirement. And despite the emptiness and the burned-out, I find myself back in this togetherness that fills me with life anew, because even in these moments you take me as I am. And I call you my raccoon, because you remain so calm and accepting, even in my sadness.

And I call you my raccoon, because I imagine it cuddly, warm and soft, just like you are.

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