Bo(w) to Jim
The door is ajar. Birds swoop, leaves rustle and voices cackle. The countryside calls out. It does so to everyone. The door draws me in. The feeling is mutual. Peeking is not allowed. It’s never a good idea to singe yourself. Many nights ago I had wafted through the door. I have ceased to be still since. The door to the most impractical dream is the exit to the most practical nightmare. What in the world is an isolated door doing in the countryside? The answer, as in most cases, lies in the question itself. Many a time I had run my hand over its crevices. They had felt like cold steel. A shiver drifts down my spine. The door is a continuous obstacle. It involves reality, imagination and complexity. Routes are always discreet. As my hands move, sweat beads break out. They tremble after years of dancing with shadows. I break my head against the nothingness of the wall and clench my fist. I am full of space. What I clutch is emptiness. My tooth twitches and I turn ugly. The grass ahead had been treaded on. As I trudge back, the weed seems to still be untouched. The lustre, the carving, the opening are all a distant dream. No thinking was the cry. I have cried long and hard. A hand was there. I’m glad it didn’t smother me and sad that I didn’t grab it. Weird, but nice. What is price and what is value. One never really knows. The world is a study. It helps one to crack up. I cannot move. The requiem continues. The door must open.
