On doors and paths and a little creative writing.

One day she opened the door. That door. The one she had kept firmly blockaded shut for so long, too long. She hadn't even noticed the blockade when it first accumulated, but it had become her safety. She occasionally glimpsed the sun peeking through the cracks but the blockade kept out the rain. She had once needed this. She had needed this shelter to repair the cracks she'd found and to grow into the shape she now took.

Then she dismantled the blockade, piece by piece, and opened the door. Why now? She couldn't tell you. A sense of readiness? Curiosity? Boredom? Your guess is as good as hers. No matter the why, it was now open.

It would be nice to say she opened this door onto a beautiful and sun-drenched garden, but alas the world doesn't work that way. All she found was a path. Like all paths it has its hills and valleys, flowers springing up through the stones and garbage blocking the way, mucky sections and easy goings.

This path is meandering, but she is certain of one thing. There is no going back behind that door. She will walk it and see where the twists and turns lead. She might even run it, a little too impatient to see what it leads to, though so far that has only resulted in twisted ankles and some minor bruising. No matter, that happens. But she will keep on this treacherous and glorious path; she is excited to see what is around the next turn.