The source of life
You have to go back in time a long time to reach the beginning of the story. When you arrive, you will find a small, inconspicuous village in the middle of a vast desert, hidden in an unusually fertile oasis. Inexhaustibly, the crystal-clear spring of life bubbles up in it. The inhabitants of the village saw what was there and fed on the abundance. They drank refreshed from the spring and lived the dreams that sprang from it. Not infrequently, on starry nights, they were seen around the common fireplace, dancing freely and singing the most joyful songs. Their hearts were full of warmth and their smiles reflected the lightness of a happy life. But it was not only the people who drank from the clear water of the spring. The flowers, too, grew vividly in all colours among the colourful houses and mingled merrily their fragrance with the joy of these people.
But then it happened that a thirsty wanderer came near the village in the dark. He was carrying a heavy load and groaned incessantly with every step he took. As fate wanted it, he met one of the villagers who was sitting contemplatively on a dune listening to the quiet murmur of the desert wind. When he heard the wanderer’s groan, he stopped breathing, puzzled. “Who are you?” he asked. Instead of giving an answer to this question, the wanderer told him about the great burden he had to carry and was persistently dragging around on his back. Somewhat confused, the desert dweller returned to the village. He could not tell of himself that he was carrying such a great burden on his back. Life in the oasis was characterised by lightness. Something in him suddenly felt empty. “I wonder what the other villagers will think of me if I too can carry such a heavy load?” he asked himself, already lost in thoughts.
The next day, he had loaded himself with stones and returned to the hiker, who was still thirsty for water. “Look at what I can carry today” he said proudly to the hiker. The latter gave him a silent look of acceptance. He hadn’t quenched his thirst, but he was already feeling a little better in company. “At least someone who recognises me” he thought. So, in agreement, they began to drag their great burden around the village. They groaned and groaned with every step.
No one knows exactly why, but this process repeated itself in a mysterious way until finally the whole village had gathered around the wanderer. Together they dragged more and more stones through the desert. They groaned and grunted and dragged themselves with bent backs through the dry sand of the desert. With serious expressions, but always thirsty and gasping for air, they told each other about the great burden they now had to carry. Some even managed to build a small tower of stones on their backs and carry it around shakily. Whenever one of them fell on their head, they called it “complicated” and groaned and moaned a little louder. The result was an agonising lament that settled ever heavier over the once lively village.
Time passed into nothingness and with the memories of the villagers, the colours of the houses gradually faded to a drab grey. Even the flowers lost their fragrance and left the village uprooted with drooping heads. A place of life had become a place of lost solitude, where silence was the only welcome guest.
Now, in the midst of this loneliness and silence, a small miracle happened. Connected to the source of life, a small delicate flower with fine colours grew in the midst of a grey world. Courageously, it has been emitting a lovely fragrance ever since, telling the story of this village in the colours of joy. It waits patiently for those of us who thirstily seek the source of life.