Two Doors
Peeling back the layers of dust and brushing away the cobwebs requires an inconceivable level of concentration. Freeing his mind of pointless clutter is a necessary chore, taken to frequently in order that the man and the machine should continue to run smoothly. Clearing his psyche of all purposeful thought demands considerably greater effort; a juxtaposition of sorts, which he rarely indulges in. Yet in routine cleansing there are always objects that are neglected; the tennis ball under the bed, the skeleton in the wardrobe. Two doors. Always left alone; never deleted.
For a man such as he is, these doors would have to be intricately described. A vivid imagination befits the calibre of his intellect. Every minute detail is recorded and encouraged, and the objects are a stark contrast to the rest of his brain's inventory. They stand out so brilliantly but are so deliberately ignored by the lightning impulses which whizz so frequently through a nearby synapse.
The doors themselves could not be more dissimilar if they tried. The first is enveloped in a chic, commanding black varnish. The second is a faded pastel pink; the paint peeling and scuffed, as if it has spent a lifetime in the background, vying for attention.
The gothic handle of the black door has been painted the colour of blood. The splash of colour is an altogether dominating experience, deliberately drawing the eye to the cold, iron half-cupid's bow of the handle. The keyhole is sharp and well-defined.
The pink door would look perfectly at home in a country cottage; occasionally letting slip embarrassed whiffs of comfortable shabbiness. Its wooden doorknob is rounded and warm to the touch. The lock has been scratched, having fallen afoul of the curse of lost keys and telling tales of clumsy drunken escapades. In its timid, unassuming way, the lock has seen the best of days.
The enticing, obsidian-coloured door possesses a neatly labelled intercom. It invites the rare passer-by to caress it without false pretence.
The blushing rose door has a mat but no knocker. The muddied brown doormat is prickly but declares "Welcome!" in friendly letters. The spy hole was hastily filled in long ago.
On occasion, and often at the most inconvenient moments, the black door will open just a crack, white light spilling through. A sly invitation dangled on the off-chance that he may be passing by. More often than not, he unwittingly accepts. Striding powerfully through the door's contents, he always catches flickering images, the details of which others would deem insignificant. They are ever changing and never dull. A leatherette whip. An empty syringe. A discarded hijab. The curvature of a hip. This proceeds until he sees fit to banish the images and swiftly restore the door to its former state. His stays in the room are brief and, if he would allow himself to admit it, thoroughly enjoyable.
He has never so much as touched the pink door, nor will he ever. It remains locked. Of course there is intrigue; the kind that jogs parallel to his usual curiosity but refuses to greet it. And yes, he does have a key; anyone can fabricate a key. He simply chooses not to use it. It is an alarmingly straightforward process to open a door, yet he cannot escape the notion that this particular model would not respond well to an attempt. There was the distinct possibility that it would squeal loudly before abandoning its hinges if he so much as tried. Plainly put, the chamber within could not handle his presence.
Two doors; rarely acknowledged, but certainly not deleted. One interferes whilst the other mopes. Both live in a darkened corner. He allows them to exist for reasons which he will never truly understand. Yes, he knows that they are important. Yes, he holds them in high regard. Yes, he cares that they are there. They just don't fit in with The Work.
Please review. :) MC. xx