I imagine my writing as a doorway. I want to enter from the exterior front door. It is a shiny ebony on a swath of white facade. Coming up one fifth up the hard stucco walls is grey stone. Slate and iron ore brick is my foundation. Greens and a carpet of muted colors live outside of me. Here and there an accent.
Meanwhile, blue voices sing in the sky.
There’s a window etched in an elaborate manner. It is held together with hope. This is the iris of my eye in the center of my door. The prism glass flashes light through a spectrum and rays bounce inside. A remembered line of thought passes through and is caught with a jerk and a wince. More often, the moment cuts across the dimensions sans recognition or pause.
With time and usage, my brass handle is muted and worn. Stained and distressed by years of intermittent polishing far and few between.
The black door opens and I enter my scattered mind. Nevertheless, palpitating beneath, I find a loyal and humorous heart.
