"The angeled look" (original writing, translation, modelling, editing)

yoganarchista (68)in #writing • 7 years ago (edited)

She often told her about her life, talked about the things she had observed or experienced, and her eyes were shining with enthusiasm. How beautiful it was to be able to suck and appreciate life. He liked to listen, and sometimes a wave of gladness came over him as he imagined the things she was talking about. But he had no memory that moved him in a similar way. Things were indifferent to him.
He saw in a sunbeam, which fell on top of the summit and cool water, as exactly this, while she could spend hours describing such a precious memory. How the color of the light could change from one second to the next, and how nature and all things breathed this changed mood. Just as the clouds, in their apparent freedom, followed only the winds, swept over the sky, and marmorated it with blazing color-shadows. Just as the dark silhouettes of the rocks were so gently touched by a spark of light to give them a tremendous importance, they were not hidden in the shady darkness, but appeared visibly. She spoke a lot about the importance of being seen. Of the value she wanted to give to the moments, when she took note of their details and kept them within herself.
Sometimes tears came into her eyes, but he did not know if these were wistful or tears of happiness. This vulnerable sadness, which she then radiated, aroused an old regret within him. He recognized how much of his life had passed unperformed past him, she lived her feelings, even those who were to destroy her. He could not. It was as if there was a barrier between him and his truly fundamental feelings, he could not live them because he could not come into contact with them. Perhaps he had deliberately set this up. He remembered that he had once gone through phases of immense loneliness. It was probably the only feeling he had experienced in the whole spectrum and perhaps there was this longing he knew from his lonely moments. The longing for life, for the magic that he had never lived.
When he had suffered in silence alone, he had at the same time despised his longing, and when his thoughts looked into the vastness of the stars, the great coldness of the room gripped his breast so violently that all the cravings had to die. He could not stand the pain. But now he was strengthened, he knew the pain and did not let it be. He wanted to live, but he did nothing on his own initiative, only what was needed for living. But when she spoke like that, there was that regret in him, and occasionally the longing in him fell, for a moment, until he was terrified by the horror of the former suffering and anguish, and again felt indifferent emptiness.