The doors in my life are two-fold.
For every revolving door, every sliding door, the doors to my studio, my flat, my new way of life,
a closet door.
If this door could talk
it would probably scream.
A piercing, blazing wail of fear,
the unknown scorching the handle.
The varnished oak gouged in scratch marks,
peeled off stickers.
I have opened this door countless times.
Slowly, haltingly, wincing at the groaning hinges.
Now and then the coast is clear,
and I fling the door open,
delighting in the slam against the wall.
The door was forced open once.
A resounding truth,
a lesson I have had to learn and teach myself,
is that there is never just one closet.
There is never just one set of doors.
I will find myself behind that door again.