Life is too short for boring stories

Clouds had pushed themselves in front of the moon, deep, dark clouds, so that I could hardly see you anymore. Darkness, pitch-black darkness even superimposed the gray, took away the nuances even from this. But I felt that you were looking at me, intensely and demanding.

“Tell me more, tell me more, so that I can stay.” you asked, “because I want to stay.” “I should tell you? Yes, I want to tell you, but I am not Seherazade. My stories will run out sooner or later,” I said sadly. “But I am not Shakriyar either. And I don’t want any distant, strange stories either, I want yours,” you replied. „The faster the stories will be exhausted,“ I countered. “All the less there is the risk that they will come to an end, because every day one is added, a new one from this, one, only, this day. The stories never stop,” you said. “But you are here with me and are part of these stories from today. What could I tell you about that?” I said, even more sadly, because if I couldn’t think of anything more, then you’d have to get away from me, away from my world, back into yours, which seemed more distant and incomprehensible to me than the most distant galaxy. I didn’t want it, this sadness, and also not the fear, because I knew the sadder, the more scared I was, the sooner I would think of nothing more. There was a big gate in my head, a two-winged one that was the entrance to the images that lived in it. Fear was one wing and sadness the other, and these closed when I let them, so that the way to my own pictures was closed to me and I could no longer tell stories, no sentences and not a single word.

„You can tell me any of these stories from today.“ You tear me out of my sad and fearful thoughts, „Because even if we experience the same story, we experience it as ours, yours and mine, constituted and borne by our previous experiences, our own yesterday, forming in the now to enable us to grow into tomorrow. So, you should tell me your story, and in it you. Tell me about yourself! „.

Slowly, very slowly, I felt how the fear and sadness began to recede, how the door wings dared to open timidly. There was already a small gap that allowed a view of the images behind. “Yes, I will tell you, as I am used to telling you, as I have so far, whether you were there or not. I told and told, with my words, with my thoughts, with myself, tell myself.” And with this recognition the door wings opened completely, in one fell swoop, and the whole splendor of my world of images became visible.

„And even if you should ever reach the limit of what can be told, we will defy this limit as well, because beyond what can be spoken, actual, personal speaking begins,“ you said. “Over the limit of the verbal to actual personal speaking, to the truthfulness and uniqueness of the you-saying. That’s where I want to tell us. ” I promised. „And I’ll go with you, into your storytelling and beyond.“ You promised.

And when the cloud cover tore up and the warm, pale moonlight fell on your face, it seemed to me as if you had recovered a little from the consumption of life.

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