The white curtains blow in the summer wind. The room is all white, and when I look out the window of the bungalow, the sunlit stone coast of Tuscany lies in front of it. The light breeze gently blows around me, playing with my hair. One day you came into my life as if it were the most natural thing in the world, you filled it with happiness and cheerfulness, you let zest for life and energy move into me. I had been quiet and reserved before, but you let me discover me, unveiled the hidden and let me grow far beyond what I had ever imagined.
One day you were there, and you loved me for an eternity, a day, an hour, a week, a month, or just a moment. One day it was, and one day it was that you were gone. There were no omens. At least I didn’t see any or didn’t want to see any. I reacted like any abandoned person who doesn’t understand what it means to be abandoned. I waited, and it was a long time, maybe just a moment, but it was, and it passed. I may still be waiting, but the hours normalized and the curtain billows in the wind as I reflect on those 48 hours we spent here. Just 48 hours that were filled with pure togetherness. Not a single thought went out, not a look ahead or back, just here, just moment was, and it was probably the most intense hours of my life, but it was.
We drove away again, from this place full of sun, sea and peace, back to normality, to the life that was to be led. One day it was all bliss and absolutes, and one day it was all gone. I waited. you didn’t come anymore I waited. To you of you. Maybe also that the pain subsided. It will pass, as they always say, and time heals all wounds. But the pain doesn’t go away, and the wounds don’t heal. I just learned to live with it. It didn’t matter where I was. So I moved here, one day, right into the memory of the greatest happiness, to dive down to the deepest pain. My mouth was dry, parched, for I thirsted for Your presence like the earth thirsts for rain, but it got better. I wrote to you over and over again, about my pain and my longing, and carefully stacked the letters under my bed. I slowly got used to the pain, and he made peace with the happiness I was allowed to have, made peace with the longing that was no longer presumed, but precisely measured. Sometimes I still think about how it was back then, and I catch myself letting a small smile cross my lips, as if someone else was telling me that story when it’s young and fresh and still has all the hope in it lives. I’ve lost hope, leave the letters under the bed and know it was, someday, but I’m not waiting to forget anymore.
It’s part of my story, and to eliminate my story would be to eliminate myself. That’s how I let myself in and give the thought freedom, if I sometimes still think about the fact that one day you came and one day you went. No one bears responsibility, much less blame. It was, and it was neither right nor wrong, because what was, just was, as is is and will be as it will be. There are no rules, no help, neither for happiness nor for pain. And the waves lazily run out on the beach while I decide to go out again, following the same tracks, following the same path. And then there are those times when I still think about it.