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Life is too short for boring stories

You can find them everywhere. Countless padlocks. On bridges. Especially. You can see them all the way to a barrier at the Cliffs of Moher. Some are empty. Others labeled. Name, a date. Sometimes a message. How romantic. I want to think. A seal of our love. One forever. You lock up and throw away the key.

It’s so romantic to make a promise forever. Never will anything change, let’s talk, you me and me you. Talk to each other. Forever. Big and confusing. One may believe in it, hope for it, dream it. And it has something, something seductive. And why not believe, hope, dream. Even from the fact that we are about to develop, that we stay connected in deep friendship and that love accompanies us, as well as on the first day. It would be nice. To grow together. To fight life together with each other. Side by side. Sometimes back to back. But it can not be determined. Not to claim. It will or will not. The closed padlock does not prevent the outbreak, only the truth. We have to lie to keep it up. In the process, we have convinced ourselves that we are honest, that we always say everything. This is not possible with a closed lock. Locked up in a future of which we know nothing, locked up in an eventuality, until it occupies the whole reality and nothing more is conceivable than I can not get out of it any more. Whether I want it or not. I can only make a real decision if I have an option. But I locked them away. With me. With our hopes and dreams. Also with the faith.

The padlock is closed and the key thrown away. Right-free space. Human rights free space. Is not necessary. You do not have to hide anything from me if you do not do anything. The question of the Inquisition. Maybe I do not want to tell you everything. Or just not yet. Maybe I can not tell you everything. As harmless as it may be. Simply because you totally engulfed me and you expect my life and love to revolve around you. It scares me. But I had agreed to close the padlock and throw away the key. Now you have all rights over me. Also the right to account for every minute of my day. What have you done? What did you think? What did you dream? Everything you do has to do with me, should it be done right. Everything you think must relate to me, should it be thought properly. Everything that you dream has to be connected with me, it wants to be decently dreamed. Nothing remains of me, and certainly no love that can not thrive when placed in a lightless room. Like a flower, without water, without light. There I sit opposite you and must explain myself. For how I look, how I talk, how I look away, how I’m silent. You have to be my life. The padlock has sealed it. The discarded key too.

„What’s mine is mine,“ you say. I am meant. There’s nothing to shake it about. I’ve read that it can be, a connection, intimate and intense, that does not need padlocks, and certainly not keys. To be one, to let you and me be. In which there is neither dissimulation nor lies, neither possession nor imprisonment. I dare to dream of this openness into which I may unfold, in which I am more with you than without you, because you allow me to live in the love, under the open sky, under the sun and rain and wind. It may be, I have learned. Since then I dream of it. But you look at me. Penetrating, probing. I’m afraid you could read my thoughts of a freedom that would benefit us, you and me and our love. But you would not understand it, would insist on the padlock and that I only wanted freedom to foreignbonk. I do that anyway. It is also fine as long as nobody knows about it and the façade of well-being, the small, refined bourgeoisie, is preserved. So one lie piled on the other, because that is the padlock without a key and we have no choice.

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