I often come to this door, but have never turned the key.
Until this time.
This time, I press against the cold steel and watch my fingers curl around the handle and slowly twist. I can tell by the way I inch forward that I believe I’ll have the chance to choose whether or not I want to enter, after I see what’s inside.
But this is not so today.
The door opens and I’m in with such force that my cheeks draw back and my neck strains against the pressure.
It’s so dark.
Lack of light is not the issue. It’s well-lit. Sharply, in fact. Bright fluorescents so exposing, that I can see all of my smudges and every choice I’ve ever made.
Nonetheless, it’s dark in here.
The blaze of light showcases every setting, subject and sonnet I’ve ever engaged in and holds it up to the heat of the glare. The doubt of it all melts and it drips its hot, inky stain over my skin.
There’s often darkness in light.
But whether or not we turn the key, open the door, step inside or flip a switch, it goes both ways. There’s also light to be seen in the darkness.
We just have to imagine it’s there.
