the door

The door looks at me. Inviting me in. A dirty creamy colour with batman and the joker. With scotch tape stains and dust on the edges. The door looks at me and prays for me to enter. The handle is scuffed. Paint giving way to rusty hard iron. Offering myriad possibilities. I like that word. The cold hard feel of the floor inside. The tangy smell of life. Of sweat and soap and stale news. Green and white all bathed in neon. I sit, I stand I recline I dance. I see and I am blind. I laugh I cry I hurl abuse and immerse myself in mood. An attack of noises. Assailing each ear differently. Assailing each ear with sounds so intense as to drown you in them. The door looks at me. Pleading for me to come in. Please! It seems to be saying. Come in. Visiting the abyss on a dare, the walls a brighter shade of light. Traveling without moving ? Something like that. A ten ton hammer on my chest or the feel of blood on my lips. A delicate breeze on my face or a friendly hand on my back. The door opens into a new room every time. This music sucks but will sound so much better when I open the door and step inside. The door looks at me. The door welcomes me in.