There's the Door

He opened his eyes. How long had he been sitting there, or laying there, in that half-light that streamed into the room through the doorless frame? He could see the blue sky, and though intense, it wasn't strong, but it still hurt his eyes. The horizon covered in a forest beyond a golden field that began right at the foot of the porch steps. How long had he been there? How long had that been waiting for him? Hadn't he once stepped up to the landing and gazed in more directions at the beauty of it all? Had he not once known how to step outside the boundaries of this lean-to lie?
How long had it been?

---

Clack clack clack. It rings in my ears, and in my sleep, and not at all: the chain that hits the fan in the bedroom as it shakes back and forth. Sunlight pours in through one unforgiving window, its crimson curtain taken down to be used for a bedsheet; the light warming my hands as I type on the keyboard. Outside the heat is unrelenting and the clouds are few and far between, but the world goes on in this strange weather. Perhaps it is the weather that is inside, inside my house, inside my heart, that people should wonder...

"Are you sad?" It was a question from way out in left field, but as soon as it was asked, I felt a melting. I considered it for some time before answering, and during that space, she justified her asking: "It just seems like you're sad. Are you? If you're not, I was just wondering, but it seems that way."
"I think," I took a breath, "I think I've been sad for so long that I just don't remember it. I've gotten used to being this way all the time." And it hurt in a way to admit to only living in varying degrees of sadness; that I've spent so much time wallowing in it that I had not had time for joy.

At the same moment, in the hallway, on the pew, staring up through the bannister at the three posters that lined the wall ("Lord" -- the word, large, in front of my face), it was all somehow liberating. As though I was told there was an exit, though no one ever said anything of the sort. I find it a strange comfort to know where I am. If only I had the strength of my own to get back to where I should be. But thankfully, there is a God who is strong. As much as it hurts me to admit it, I hate to say that, because it sounds so dumb. And that admission only reveals to us all how little faith I have... how twisted hope has become for me. It is with a still bitter tongue I thank those who've had a disparaging hand in my delicate downfall. In reality, that bitterness is able to be abolished as well, but I, as of yet, have not found the desire, nor the means by which I am able to do so. God help me in that I may be able to rid it before it clings so unwelcoming to my sould and roots itself too deep in my already broken heart.