There’s a dim spark in the doorway of my memory that burns so low that it might not be there at all. Despite my ill regard, that spark flutters to life like a slow-melting candle on a nightstand, and it cannot and will not be ignored. It’s incredibly hard to look at it burning the way it does on low ignition. It’s a pin-light—a splutter.
The door in my mind is jammed open. No one can close it. It’s always open. Reality bleeds in like a disease. A numbing, flesh-consuming sickness. I cannot close the door.
I always see you framed by a distant glow. I see you floating just beyond the light that creeps through the cracks. You’re a shadow of your vibrance, but it’s you. There’s no doubt about it.
Of course, when I ask you why you’re so elusive and secretive in your abandonment, your image flickers against the light like translucent plastic film.
"Why do you keep the door open?” I beseech you imploringly while you ignore my essence.
I want to feel something solid in my hands, so I delve into your forsaken golf bag and discover a four-iron. It’s so solid; it feels real in my hands, and I wonder if I’ll be able to swing it. I wonder intermittently for hours before returning the iron to its comfort zone.
“What if I moved? Left the doorway unattended. Escaped? Would you languish there for others, or is your talent show only staged for me?”
“What if I got drunk and banished my thoughts?”
“What if, hey?”
Just you and me and failing hope.
Just you and me, my love.
My love.
We discovered so much together. There was a highway. Do you remember? When we took your father’s car and sped through the night like tear-aways high on adrenaline and youth.
Then there was the ocean, blue, deep, and dark in the early morning light. It pooled green in the shallows, and that’s where we frolicked like dolphins. We skipped across the foam while it bubbled under our hands. We were as agile as the sleek fish we imagined ourselves to be.
Your breath ruffled my hair so softly while we explored the dunes with our backpacks and our exuberance. Do you remember the sad reed that you gifted me with its bent countenance and its aroma of wild things?
"It belongs to you. “ Your words caught the breeze and echoed.
You were so delightful. Yes, you spotlighted my focus. I couldn’t see anything but you.
The wonder is that you saw me too.
We were such a remarkable team.
Then you found a doorway, and you snuck inside, and the waters of the ocean ran cold. The highway sank into oblivion, and I could see the outlines of the life that you left me with, and I held on. I hold.
There’s a door...
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There is a door to memories that opens when we write. Fortunately, you have left it open and this beautiful writing was born. A pleasure to read you. Best regards.
Thanks for stopping by😊😊
Wow, this is such a beautiful and deep piece of art.
As always, you're a wonderful writer.
You are a wonderful writer. I’m always hoping for more by you
You're so kind with your words. 🤭
Thank you. 😇
What a beautiful story, @itsostylish. So ethereal. We sense the presence of the person being spoken to, though he is not truly there. For a while, I thought perhaps the narrator was the visiting spirit, then I thought it is much more likely that the narrator is being wistful about someone who has passed on. I love your sparse writing and how you give readers so much visual and sensory richness, yet challenge them to complete the story in their own minds.
Thanks for reading and taking the time to comment and access. ❤️💕❤️💕😘😘
The recurring motif of the door, both open and closed, as a symbol of this severed connection is poignant, Well nice story thanks for sharing.
You've been curated by @plantpoweronhive! Delegations welcome!
Thank you @plantpoweronhive
I think you have to let go and focus on more meaningful connections or by just being yourselve. You should also try to voice out if anything seems bothering as you stated in your piece that no one can close such door which i believe is a metaphorical expression you used to conveyy your thoughts.
This is fiction, @toluwanispecial. When you read and comment on stories, it's always a good idea to look at the tags and determine whether the story is fictional (imagined and created by the author) or creative nonfiction (a true story from the author's life).
Thanks for sharing your incredible thoughts, i will surely get to take my time another time when reading by paying attention to the tags just like you have mentioned.
Your wonderful tender piece is full of sweet longing, and it brought to mind a famous quote that has been attributed to various figures but nobody really knows who said it.
"There are things known
and there are things unknown
and in between are the doors."
We meet many people in our journeys but only a few leave a lasting imprint. In this story, the protagonist appears to be addressing one such person, a lover perhaps, relative maybe, or just a special someone. Deep and soulful work.