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Life is too short for boring stories

What is it about, with this unrestrained and unrestrainable longing that is spreading in me, raging in me, like a rapidly growing ulcer that remains without healing and relief because there is no remedy for it?

What is it, with this eternally driving restlessness that dwells in me, that takes me more and more into possession?

What is it, with this eternally unsatisfied and unquenchable desire for more, for more than all that there has to be, just has to be, even if I will never find it?

Up there, in the middle of my rose garden, it lit up briefly, it was immersed for a moment in the pale, gentle light of the moon, which made it flash and thus outshone even the whole splendor of the beautiful roses, the blue flower, the epitome of the constant Looking for what I don’t really want to find. Only the certainty that it exists, that I could reach it, that I kneel down before it and acquire it, that I could make it my own, only this certainty is enough for me. Because regardless of whether I would pick it or dig up the roots with it, it would die, right at that moment, would hang the head and never bloom again, never shine again, never bloom for me again, never shine for me again. Any goal, any orientation and any meaning would be lost to me.

The blue flower that briefly shows itself to me, it is the epitome of all answers to my unbridled and irrepressible longing. But what comes after all the answers, after the certainty? Nothing more on which my longing can focus, not even the longing itself!

The blue flower that shows itself to me, it is the place to come to rest, the place where all striving forwards is done, is seduction to stand still and Godot. But what would striving be without drive? Nothing more that my joy of discovery could focus on!

The blue flower that shows itself to me, it is the more than everything that I believe in because I want to believe in it, the more than everything that overcomes all half-measures, all misunderstandings, everything that divides by bringing it together to a wholeness, everything gathered and unified the scattered and lost. But what comes after the totality, after the union to the totality? Nothing worth opening your eyes anymore.

I take another look at the place where I saw the blue flower briefly flash, but the blue shimmer has disappeared, so that I can start looking for it again, so that I can still have it as a target in front of my eyes, and it is not lost to me as such. I’m on my way again, to the blue flower. Maybe I will find it in you.

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