There was sublime time of meeting. A time of birds and flowers. Time honey. Everything was new, everything was possible, we marveled at one another, it seemed the dawn of the world.
There was this taming progressive, as in a love story. Moreover, this collusion, this taste of being together, sharing so many follies, of laughter, discovery, much like a love story. She and the Other. How, by some miracle, by which light and dark link, could it be they were both so alike and so different? Yet it worked despite the reservations of some, still inclined to think of you, in spite of you want your happiness.
She never gave in to warnings, she loved the Other just as loved Montaigne, La Boétie. Because it was so.
There was the time of the first clouds, passing quarrels which she did not give more importance than that, convinced of the eternal constancy necessarily this kind of unwavering relationship. His heart went out very soft in a little scratched though, every time, but the others returned, and a flower, a word erased misunderstandings. Was not this the most important? They took up the thread, as it catches up, an expert hand, lost a few stitches in knitting.
There was finally time to break a storm stronger and more ruthless than the others and had washed away all in its path. It was now that she learns to live without the Other. The Other who had taken the risk of losing it once more. Once too often.
It was that she forgets it. What she learns to meet the other by chance at a street corner, and being nothing more than a vague relationship to it that we welcome, we embrace mechanically before turning on his heel in you planting there, haggard and distraught, heart ravaged once again. Once too often. It took time for that it gets used.
She should have paid more attention to a phrase often said that the Other. "Everything happens ..."
sentence was murdered. Naively, she never thought these two little words one day apply to their history.
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