September 7, 2009
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Unlike the one leading to my living room, the side door at work is noiseless with exception of one faint, prolonged creak. This is the alert to all upper management that again I have arrived approximately three minutes late. As if the sleek glass didn’t give away my stealthy arrival, the metallic frame and lock only enhance my entrance and the entrance/exit of several hundred people during the course of the day.
My tried and true vintage wooden door is another story, as most doors are. The brassy handle has to be forced open and shut with a series of staccato thwack!s, alerting everyone to my arrival home, and the arrival/departure of many friends blowing through on the wind.
I am covered in doors. I have been assured for the past two years of the perpetual revolving door set firmly in my frame of reference. I crave the root of an open passage. I want consistency, things properly in their place. I want to know where I’m going, what I’m doing, who will pull me through time…. But when all I desire is attained, will I become restless once more? Will I be fulfilled where I am?
To pull the door shut behind me- that is my greatest concern. If I am still restless, I pray for an open window, or the courage to jump through a closed one.
