The Door

Don’t ask me what all this is about, because I’m not sure myself.

A door is pretending to be a wall. I can’t see it, but I know it’s there. Like a drop waiting to fall. It’s waiting for me to find the handle and open it. But I’m afraid to touch it. It’s cold. And beyond it, the unknown reigns. I know I shouldn’t fear it. I know life is all about learning, all about making mistakes. But I’m afraid.

They say one could find God behind it. I doubt it. I don’t want to meet the god that failed. If he’s there, I’ll just take his place. Which leads me to the conclusion that he’s not there. Can’t be! He’s never anywhere / always everywhere. He’s part of me, dust to dust. I’m part of him, tear for tear.

I won’t hear the drop fall. What am I afraid of? After all, it’s not the blade of a guillotine looming above me. It’s just a key. To a door. Drawn on a wall.

It’s not the last key in the world!

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