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Life is too short for boring stories

The beauty of the moment is its blossoming.
The tragedy of the moment is its death.
Life takes place between blossoming and dying.
Nothing will bring it back.
Nothing will stop it.
But I always have a choice.

Every time again. In the rose garden the glitter of the blue flower appears, which shows me the way. When I wake up into the night I discover it, walk down the hall, down the stairs into the garden. The roses appear velvety in the warm light of the full moon, the dew glittering, which does not make one forget that a morning ends the night.

The beauty of the night is its blooming.
The tragedy of the night is its death.
Life takes place between blossoming and dying.
Nothing will bring it back.
Nothing will stop it.
But you always have a choice.
Every time again.

I run through the rose garden. The wind catches in my dress, caresses my legs. Like you a long time before. Like a dream. Like a hunch. Like a memory. Like a providence.

The glitter changes its place and I follow him out the back gate. I discover an avenue lined with huge poplars, the branches of which nestle tenderly into one another, forming a roof, shielding the path. I follow the avenue and the glitter, to the first bench where I discover you, you discover me. I sit down next to you and to the commonality of the encounter.

The beauty of the encounter is its blooming.
The tragedy of the encounter is its death.
The encounter takes place between blossoming and dying.
Nothing will bring it back
Nothing will stop it.
But we always have a choice.
Every time again.

„You send me out into the world as soon as I meet you,“ I speak to you.
“Go out and live, and then you can find your expression, I say. I am not sending you away from me, I am sending you to you,” you say to me.
“I don’t understand, and yet I live it. All I see right now is the way from you. And now that you’re back, now I can say it was right. Walk. Life. Love. Open in encounter. Grief and pain. Beauty and happiness. The fullness of life, smell, breathe, taste, ingest „, I speak to you.
“You have wings that carry you, wings that allow you to conquer the innermost and closest, the outermost and the most distant. Spread it out and fly,” you say to me.
“I have wings and move confidently, no matter how often they break or you prune them, they grow back and are safe to carry me further, to the innermost and closest, to the furthest and most distant. You give me the impetus. But the execution is up to me. Unsure at first. It’s so pleasant in the familiar, so close and warm and secure in the traditional. Still, you show me what it’s like to leave it behind. You lead me into life by letting go of me. You are me in every step, in every flap of my wing,” I tell you.
„This is where we and our meeting come true,“ you say to me and leave.

I follow the glitter and the avenue.
The goal of longing is to achieve.
Reaching is the death of longing.

Go to part 2 here.

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