Of Doors

There are some doors that are enticing, as if almost inviting. They call you to serenade them with all the love you have. They are possessive little creatures, won't let you go. You meddle with their locks and hinges, suppose that they are at your will but, is it so? While you touch them, play with them, shut them, open them, you leave in them your bits and parts. Years elapse and time passes on but your part remains stuck in them, Your laughter, your sadness, your sighs and passions all trapped in their joints. Tiny airways that form with time do not let them escape.They separate from you and attach themselves to the door.

A part of you thus lives on, sees the light of those days when you are all but gone. They wait in silence for you to return but you never do. Your body perished, soul mingled with another body never attempts to reach those laughter that were left without a lip. The songs in your mind grow in the dry and painted log of the doors and when rain comes, they try to get out and bloat the door. It won't open, and if opened it will not close. The door is afraid that your songs and your joys along with your sorrows will leave it, if it swings and moves freely. It holds on to you, It remembers you long after you have forgotten yourself.

The door waits for you to return, stays there still and does not move an inch. The walls holding it tries to crumble and then the door pleads. It raises its plaintive eyes to stop the walls from crumbling. How opposing these two are: walls divide and doors unite, yet they stay together in peace.

Doors are infidel and even when they love you, they can love each of them who touched its soul. They seduce others with their unabashed sincerity. They fall in love with every single touch, a single sway and they are forever yours, but are they for real?

It will wait for you sometimes shutting all the anguish in it and sometimes opening up to a breeze. They will wait and you will remember but then they will caress others. It was your veil that tucked in its hinges (remember the little tear, the places where the threads went off). You are sitting with the same edge of the veil and remembering the time when you turned blushing, mistaking the door for your lover. The door is tugging at someone else's veil now, playing with it and all this while it has you in mind. It is now replete with the memories of the moment and while you still stay it will have someone else too for keepsakes.

Keepsakes is all that my door had and will ever have. It can be all's but belongs to none. You will feel exploited if you were in his place but then my door is all right with the proposition. It has a tendency to keep the memories and I have the zeal to relive the memories.

Every time The door touches someone, I touch there lives. They do not know but my essence goes on with them. Following them for some distance, being the wind that all of a sudden grazed their face. I have no face, I had once and people called it pretty. I have no hands, you see (No, you cannot see). My hands, when they could touch made the door and it was for the first time it was touched. I was the one who made it, cut it and gave it shape. My door was my first love and to see it in others embrace had no effect on me.

They took the door and planted it there and I died at the same moment. I am here since then. The door had retained a part of me and it will never let go. I try to touch but cannot and all I feel are distant ramblings. Thousand years have passed or more or less, I do not know any more but the day the door left, I knew it had taken such a great chunk of me with it that a very little of it had left in my body.

I am not dead, as many believe but it is just that I do not have a body.
Every time the door loves someone, an iota of me is released and then I hope but then it soon takes that back in. I live here in the vicinity, My memories intact.....Have you ever seen a little chink off the wood....well that is me struggling to be freed....