Twenty-Second Thought

Play the video at the end of this while you read it.

I pause in the hallway, and the candlesticks in the wall flicker. The door at the end is always just out of reach. I will open it when it is ready, so I cease chasing it, or is it because I fear what I might find on the other side? Looking back, I see rows of gilded portraits lining the walls. Captured moments of striking beauty. The hallway is so well built. It has so much potential. Looking back at the door, my pale face is reflected back at me through it's polished handle. I put my hand out slightly and it inches away. The handle gleams brightly, emptily. I know there are many other doors I could try and open in this labyrinthine house. I could leave right now, because there's no way of knowing there isn't just space behind it, just a few feet of emptiness and hard earth to crash into. But I've followed this hallway so faithfully, helped to paint the portraits and landscapes hung on its walls. There was so much it could be, could still be. I don't want to have to pass the portraits, feel their eyes on my back, their sad, empty eyes. I should just wait for the door to be ready, I really should. But what if it sends me back, what if all there is, is a way outside? I can see it. I'd grasp the door handle firmly, and after a moments resistance, it would swing open, and I'd fall through it, into the mud, out into the thick mist. Into the cold. And I'd have to walk back, soiled, through the gallery of eyes. Ever in search of the fire-place room. The one with the warm bed, and the photo album. I don't think this door leads there, I'm scared it won't. I pause in the hallway, and the candlesticks in the wall flicker.