The Door
There were certain geographical unfamiliarities that told me this door did not belong in this door hole. The red paint -- the red paint that did not mach the surrounding maroon paint, although it may be a stretch to call the grotesque colour on the plastic-metal surface “maroon” -- had caught odd hairs, like thick fibers or bits of grass, beneath its hi-gloss surface. I found this odd, seeing as the texture of the paint on the walls was a more sandy grain; remains of tiny particles of rock here and there covered by the paint shell. An explosion of cream coloured substance - possibly cream, or maybe a bug colliding with the door at high velocities - appeared in the near-bottom right-hand corner of the door, but the matching specs of coffee-cream explosion could not be found on the sustaining wall directly beside the near-bottom right-hand corner of the door. I noticed the prominent snout of the generic hook-and-doorstop that can be found on some doors of this sort. Like an attempt at grace, it had an almost soft curl, and the rubber bumper complimented the silvery chrome of the hook. It did not belong on the door.
I wanted to open the door and see where it once lead to. I didn’t want to hypothesize about where it might have resided previously, but I hoped that it was better suited to it’s door frame and surrounding walls than the haphazardly supplied home that it now found itself so forcefully situated within. I wondered, given a moment to express it’s thoughts and feelings in a momentary facial expression, what face this door would display.
Where did the door once belong? Did the hands that caressed the handle know their door had been replaced by a door unsure of what the prior uses of the portal were or the responsibilities performed by the door-removed? It was not even sure of the hands that would be groping at his knob. But this door knew them. This door perhaps knew some of them well. Every line and crease, perhaps. Every arthritic joint and french-manicured nail, perhaps. Every pulse, perhaps.
For some time, all there was was the door. Its tragedy consumed me, every hair, every fibre of me. I could not disconnect myself from the transgressions brought upon it, and could not help but feel like, in some part, I was a transgressor myself. I will never be able to forget the door, never to forget what has been taken away.
I wanted to open the door and see where it once lead to. I didn’t want to hypothesize about where it might have resided previously, but I hoped that it was better suited to it’s door frame and surrounding walls than the haphazardly supplied home that it now found itself so forcefully situated within. I wondered, given a moment to express it’s thoughts and feelings in a momentary facial expression, what face this door would display.
Where did the door once belong? Did the hands that caressed the handle know their door had been replaced by a door unsure of what the prior uses of the portal were or the responsibilities performed by the door-removed? It was not even sure of the hands that would be groping at his knob. But this door knew them. This door perhaps knew some of them well. Every line and crease, perhaps. Every arthritic joint and french-manicured nail, perhaps. Every pulse, perhaps.
For some time, all there was was the door. Its tragedy consumed me, every hair, every fibre of me. I could not disconnect myself from the transgressions brought upon it, and could not help but feel like, in some part, I was a transgressor myself. I will never be able to forget the door, never to forget what has been taken away.