Life is too short for boring stories

Or we set about breaking down all the barbed wire, liberating the stillness of no-man’s-land, and transforming it into the liveliness of humanity, in which we can say, quite simply, I am.

I am. No more and no less. All that cannot be more or less. It can only be everything. Or nothing. I do not. Even negation. But I am. Self-affirmation. In all fibers, in all thoughts, in all attention. I am. Nothing more. Everything. In the affirmation. The everlasting cry of life. In the middle of life. Being life. And it is enough to say. I am.

I am. In love. There are no compromises. In many others. Maybe. This undermines life, makes it meaningless and powerless. There can be no compromise in love. None. Not the smallest restriction. Love me or hate me. Nothing in between. I am not or I am. Also, in love. You did not wear it. Do not bear. It was too much for you. I was too much for you. Then you are not strong enough. Carry me and let me go. I am. You also did not realize that it is no longer what embraces the world that keeps me from speaking generously of existence or connectedness or all-encompassingness. Because it is still too little and you are not wearing it. Not me either. Endure. Not even in my ego. It requires the completeness to be able to carry it. You have long ago betrayed all the concessions and anticipatory obedience to what might be expected of you. Desires to be fulfilled even before they are pronounced, even if they are not yours. What are your wishes? I asked you. You fled. Before the question. Before the answer. You only had the question that came to you and the answer that you thought you had to give because it was expected. So love shrinks into an emotional blur, like the writing that the rain washes away from the wall. I wrote love. The red color runs. Love is bleeding. Is bleeding. Matt pink remains. More is unbearable. It is too much. Also. I am.

I am. In life. The life that presents itself to me, with full force. She throws you over. You crawl away underneath. I lie down, let myself be carried, enshrined, penetrated. I am. Life in my assumption, in the intoxication of losing. Also, in you. It was an attempt. I blew you up. It was too concrete. Nothing changes. Nothing is changeable. Rigid. Lifeless. Since you cannot stand life. In this form, in this power, in this perfection. I am. The life. Also, in anger, despair, not understanding all the lifelessness between birth and death. Life is or is not. Life is not a compromise. No half-lives. Or quarter. Or eighth. No in between. Be nothing from birth to death. Or be from birth to death. I drove through you like a whirlwind, but it was still too weak to bring you to life. Concreting, cemented, centrifuged single-lance. I went in and through you because there was nothing. Just nothing. It does not fit. It cannot fit. You cannot stand it. There is no understanding. Also, no approach. Even if we act as if. As if of life. It expires. Only too fast. Because I cannot stand it. Your lifelessness. Your enduring normality. There are no shades. No deviations. That’s what makes them. But I am. Not you. It does not fit.

I am. In togetherness. In one where you can say I am. Can you do it? Will you take it? I am in yours I am. In love. In life. Limits, reserved, unreserved. Where a whirlwind goes to the other. Dance of life. To penetrate oneself, to become one, to detach, to meet again. Unlimiting to the infinity of pain and happiness. It tears me apart. Little shreds. It puts me together. Completely new. Every time completely new. We dance. Releasing immeasurable powers. All chains bursting. The remaining. To tear down the walls. They are still there. To be redemption. To be spoiled. You me. Me you. Because you can say I am. And that’s all. Where we are.

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