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Life is too short for boring stories

We walk part of the way together, hand in hand. Nobody can say how long this piece will be – or how short, and I don’t even want to be told. At some point it will be over, at some point – just not today, and maybe we will be granted the next night and the one after that, but I don’t want to anticipate. I am prepared to say goodbye, I am prepared for the inevitable, and yet I know that it will hit me in a way that nothing has ever hit me before, because no one has ever touched me like that, I think. I am prepared for the inevitable, and yet again and again I find myself planning ahead, as if there was a part of me that knows what cannot be denied and another part that simply ignores it, simply does not take note of what is known, if not denies it at all.

I gripped your hand all the tighter, probably to assure me that you were there, still there and with me, to assure you that it wasn’t that far today, I breathed a sigh of relief. We walked up the path to the castle, the path we thought up, the path we created, laughing and carefree, until we reached the big, heavy, wrought-iron gate. What could be behind it? What would the castle look like from the inside? Certainly, we had created the castle by speaking, tearing it from the river of chaos by speaking, and yet who can look into his own heart with open eyes and unadorned, without a soft focus?

We cautiously opened the large gate leaves, and even before we could discern details, we were greeted by a bewitchingly sweet and at the same time bitter scent. The inner courtyard was square, like the castle itself, framed by a colonnade, but in the middle, a splendid, blooming rose garden, a beautiful, densely overgrown rose garden: no landscaper had tinkered with it, no one had done anything. These roses had not been maltreated with any tools. They were allowed to grow as they wanted and unfold their full splendor and diversity. Just like us, untamed, wild and inexplicable was this rose garden. Neither its beauty nor its stubbornness could be controlled. To get involved or not to get involved, these were the options we had, which everyone who visits me has.

“Do you want to get involved with me? Do you want?” I wanted to know you.
“Do you want to get involved with me? Do you want to?” you wanted to know me.
„As if I hadn’t already done that.“ I let you know.
“Here there isn’t a long-been done. Here there is only the here and now of the decision.” You let me know.
„I want to get involved with you, with the blooming and gentle as well as the thorny and wild.“ I let you know.
„I want to get involved with you, with the soft-velvety and the brittle-rough.“ You let me know.

And so we went together, into our rose garden, still hand in hand, and it seemed to me as if I saw a soft, blue shimmer, hidden in the middle.

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