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As it was, this evening marked the beginning of a wonderful adventure; a frontier exploration in its own right, something dynamic, something that never stood still, that was always referenced against the fine line between freedom and slavery, a combination of reaching out and drawing back. We soon realized that this line itself was constantly shifting.
There certainly was never anything dull about this affair. It started with a bang, which may well be described as an orgy of passion, that gave way in time to lighthearted fun out of which evolved the deepest sense of honesty for one another that was an adventure in itself, a journey into the inner nature of human existence. It made us alive. It made us sensitive of each other's needs and feelings, including those anchored deep within ourselves. We said things to each other in those days that seemed crazy. They could never have been taken seriously in a literal sense. One day I proposed marriage to her, which, as she was well aware of, couldn't have been further from my mind.
This particular incidence of a spontaneous reaction to a feeling that needed expression, brought something to light that couldn't have been said in any other way. There was honesty in this lie. It made the conventional forms of honesty a closedlip silence. This silence, which usually prevails on the subject, appeared to me as a gross form of dishonesty to one self and one another.
This kind of honest adoration that spoke volumes in its own way was of course interwoven into the fabric of fun that had turned our association into something quite special. The world lay at our fingertips. We probed into areas that neither of us had ever thought existed. One night after the movies, we wondered whether it was more morally right to produce nothing, than coercing people into accepting an illusion as fact, as the movies did. And how does it alter the game when the illusion is understood as an illusion? Is it morally right to lie, if the lie is expected?
We also had great fun with exploring the stars, looking for nebulae, trying to orient ourselves to the Milky Way galaxy, in respect to what we could see from the ship. We also pretended to be actors now and then, and play-acted rolls from whatever plays we could find in the library or invent for ourselves, of kings and queens and ancient castles. There never was a dull moment when we were together, or a moment of want.
Sitting in the Jacuzzi, I remembered a day of a time long before this all happened. We had met by chance at the atrium, and began to talk. Among other things she had asked what it felt like being dead! I knew exactly what she meant. This question of course had never been asked again. However, one evening, recently, when we met at the very same spot, as we frequently did, she did ask a similar question. She asked what it felt like to know, and she whispered the rest into my ear, that she was absolutely stark naked underneath the dress that she wore. I looked at her. She wore a full flowing gown that revealed nothing unusual. Ah, but I knew. I felt anything but dead this evening and told her so. I felt exited as a little boy. We went to the ship's lounge for a drink, listened to some music, and enjoyed each other's company in this strange daring situation, fantasized a little, danced a lot, and made each other feel special all evening. There was movement in those moments filled with the dynamics of life and spontaneity, as though we had stepped into a different space, a space of love, appreciation, and response.
It was fun to be daring like this, living like a tightrope walker crossing over Niagara Falls. I even felt an extension of this feeling in the pit of the ship, while forging for the first time in human history a set of Zirconium/Platinum bearings for the turbine shafts on which our existence depended. I had no choice but to be daring, and to trust the strength of a lifetime of experience, appreciating that I was 'substantial' enough to meet this most pressing need. Being daring came easily now; the technology of it had become second nature to me, a source of confidence in the substance of my being.
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Stories about
War
from novels by Rolf A. F. Witzsche
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