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Life is too short for boring stories

Night had fallen and I had prepared myself, as in every one of my awake, lively nights, and went to my jetty, but this time a surprise awaited me. At the end of the footbridge I recognized a huddled figure, no, less so, I only sensed it, a narrow back that belonged to a person who tried everything to blend in with the environment, and yet was unable to do so. She looked like an outcast, outcast and lost. I sat down next to her quietly and without a word. It must have been quite a while that we sat next to each other on the pier in apparent harmony, until you decided to break the silence and open yourself to me. You told the following story:

“I had been happily married for many years. Well, there were good times and not so good, as it is. On the whole, I was satisfied and had the impression that my husband would be too. But I had a secret, a little secret, that I asked him for. This consisted of nothing more than a small, nondescript box that I kept in my bedside drawer. That was my secret. And every time there was an argument, I would take the box out of my bedside drawer, look at its contents, and after doing that I was always able to settle the argument and get back on good terms with my husband. Of course, my behavior was not hidden from him. At first, however, he was satisfied that it was just the way it was, but more and more often he asked me about the box and its contents, and for the time being it was enough to point out that he had promised to grant me this secret. But more and more urgently, more and more vehemently, he demanded to find out what was in the box, because after all it couldn’t be acceptable for a woman to keep secrets from her husband. And when I still didn’t give in, one day I caught him sitting on my bed with the box open. ‚There’s nothing in there but a shabby stone,‘ he said, shaking his head. ‚That’s right, basically there is nothing in it but a shabby stone. ‘, I replied, ‘Many years ago we went for a walk. It was a warm May night, the night when we talked to each other, opened up to each other. Somewhere along the way I picked up this stone and took it with me. Every time I looked at it from now on, he reminded me of that night and that it is possible to find each other.’ ‘And why did you have to keep it a secret?’, he asked. ‚Because otherwise the power of the stone would have been lost, and because I counted on your trust and your respect. You broke both of them.’, I answered and left.”

Night had fallen and I had prepared myself, as in every one of my awake, lively nights, and went to my jetty, but this time a surprise awaited me. At the end of the footbridge I recognized a huddled figure, no, less so, I only sensed it, a narrow back that belonged to a person who tried everything to blend in with the environment, and yet was unable to do so. She looked like an outcast, outcast and lost. I sat down next to her quietly and without a word. It must have been quite a while that we sat next to each other on the pier in apparent harmony, until you decided to break the silence and open yourself to me. You told the following story:

“I had been happily married for many years. Well, there were good times and not so good, as it is. On the whole, I was satisfied and had the impression that my husband would be too. But I had a secret, a little secret, that I asked him for. This consisted of nothing more than a small, nondescript box that I kept in my bedside drawer. That was my secret. And every time there was an argument, I would take the box out of my bedside drawer, look at its contents, and after doing that I was always able to settle the argument and get back on good terms with my husband. Of course, my behavior was not hidden from him. At first, however, he was satisfied that it was just the way it was, but more and more often he asked me about the box and its contents, and for the time being it was enough to point out that he had promised to grant me this secret. But more and more urgently, more and more vehemently, he demanded to find out what was in the box, because after all it couldn’t be acceptable for a woman to keep secrets from her husband. And when I still didn’t give in, one day I caught him sitting on my bed with the box open. ‚There’s nothing in there but a shabby stone,‘ he said, shaking his head. ‚That’s right, basically there is nothing in it but a shabby stone. ‘, I replied, ‘Many years ago we went for a walk. It was a warm May night, the night when we talked to each other, opened up to each other. Somewhere along the way I picked up this stone and took it with me. Every time I looked at it from now on, he reminded me of that night and that it is possible to find each other.’ ‘And why did you have to keep it a secret?’, he asked. ‚Because otherwise the power of the stone would have been lost, and because I counted on your trust and your respect. You broke both of them.’, I answered and left.”

With that she closed her story and I put her in my arms. Do I really want to know everything about you? Do I have a right to know everything about you? No, I have no right to know about you, much less to you. There is nothing that I can demand, but nothing more than to be given presents, over and over again, with complete freedom.

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