Life is too short for boring stories

Familiar, quiet, little life. Not spectacular, not sensational, not even particularly exciting, but it is my familiar, quiet, little life in which I have settled down, cozy and warm, and those who visit me always expect a warm welcome and a hot coffee (or tea, depending on your taste). I know my way around here and can find my way around, find reliability and security, and I assume, as a matter of course, that it will still be the same tomorrow, as it will be the day after tomorrow and for a long time afterwards. I have settled down and feel at home, here, in my familiar, quiet, little life, and I assume that it will stay that way, that it will just stay the way it is. And what if it wasn’t? What if everything was different tomorrow? Would I then no longer have a home? Would I be homeless then? I take in the thought and consciously walk from the place that I call my home.

I walk across my jetty. The wood has its own way of creaking. It carries me and feels like home, there, on my feet.
I walk across my meadow. The grass has its very own way of caressing my feet. It makes a bed and feels like home, there, on my feet.
I go to my pasture. The branches have their very own way of swaying in the wind. They wrap around me and feel at home, there, on my body.
I enter my castle. The rooms have their very own way of receiving me. They take me in and they feel good, there, in my mind.

But the wood on my footbridge crunches in its own way and feels good there, on my feet, because I walked over it with you.
The grass of my meadow caresses my feet in a very special way and feels good there, on my feet, because I lay down here with you, to lose ourselves in our dreams.
The branches of the willow surround me in their very own way, and feel good there, on my body, because I found myself here with you.
And the rooms of the castle receive me in their own way, and feel good there, in my feelings, because you revealed yourself to me in them.

It is not the things, the surroundings themselves that are my home, only the stories they tell of their togetherness that make them so. But this story is not the things, it lives in me, the story in its pictures of things, places and circumstances. They stay in me, and that’s where my home lives.

Even if nothing remains of all these things, I am not homeless – you are my shelter because you stretch yourself like the firmament over me, over me and my familiar, quiet, little life.


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