It is a little story, as it always happens everywhere, countless times in the circumstances, and yet this little story is unique, one of you and me, of us. It started with admission. Maybe no more than the answer to the lust for life, then, from you and me, no more than the intention to have fun, everyone for yourself, you and me. That’s how it started. Harmless. Nondescript. Not to be taken seriously. Least of all of us, a we that didn’t exist yet. Only you and me. Back then. At the beginning of a small, recurring story that we didn’t even think it could be. Just a moment when we met, you and me. Nothing else.
It was only when the moment passed that we returned to our lives. You in yours and I in mine. Everything was as usual. Nothing had changed because we did not yet recognize the story that was to come, nor did we want to recognize it. It didn’t fit right now, not in the strict time frame, not in what we imagined for ourselves, but stories that want to happen are relentless. They don’t care what we want. We still didn’t take it seriously, not the next moment, not even the one after. It was only when we stopped counting that it slowly dawned on us that it could perhaps be more than this loose sequence of moments, each of which stood alone and had nothing to do with each other, as we did nothing with each other outside of it had to do. Our lives had no intersections. Just you and me.
It was only when we linked the moments into a unity, saw them in one, that history began for us and a little bit of us, in those moments that no longer simply stood next to normal life, but stood out like something that was not was part of it, and yet it added, almost to a wholeness that healed the previous fragility, made us whole, and used the kind of loneliness that we hadn’t noticed until now because we didn’t know that there was something that would work against it could. It was so easy. You with me, I with you.
Only when we allowed the story to be one, a small inconspicuous one, but also a unique and incomparable one, because it was yours and mine, unrepeatable, it was also possible that we got close, through the skin, in the thought that we held and protected, gave understanding, and connectedness, perhaps because we never wanted it to be a story. There can be no more pain where I remember your touch, no loneliness where I feel your closeness that continues to work, over any distance.
Only when we found ourselves in it and allowed our history to change, enrich and gift us, was it good for us. Probably also because we never tried to hold on to each other, never tried to curtail the freedom or vitality of the other, but enjoyed it, also in what exactly this freedom and vitality brought to each other. It is good to know that you are happy no matter where you are and that you are close in thought. Word for word, touch for touch, we wrote our story in the wind, which it brings us again and again, always a little different, new and mysterious, just like the intensity of our understanding.
It was only when we realized that it was not painful, but that it was good for us to burn ourselves into each other, that we were able to continue the story, one within the other, interwoven and connected, and yet growing indefinitely, precisely because you were and me. Branded, not like a brand that scarred, but like a constantly reigning fire that warms and shines, even through the night of the lost, without disenchanting the secret, a banal story in all its uniqueness. You and I, like a riddle that carries the solution in itself. We encourage ourselves to become more and more, to develop what we can be because it can be told, from you to me and from me to you. And in the end it is nothing more than a small, banal story,