The Door

Stop what you’re doing. Close your eyes, relax and clear your mind. Listen to the sound of my voice… only… my… voice…

In your mind, a door stands before you. Do you see it? It’s old, older than you can imagine. Of thick ebony planks is it made, as black as ravens’ wings in stygian caves on moonless nights. Look closely. The wood shimmers with the murky translucency of obsidian and onyx. Touch it. It’s colder than anything you’ve ever touched.

With iron bands is the door bound. See them? Yes, that is iron, bright vermilion, worked by the gods themselves and tempered in their own hot blood. The iron glistens with hints of ruby and carnelian. Touch. You’ve never felt anything as hot, but it does not burn.

An ivory knob opens the door, ivory the color of bleached bone lying on white sand beneath the noonday sun. Do you see the glints of nacre? Touch it. It’s welcomingly warm, and seems almost to shape itself to your hand, to anticipate your desire. Do you feel it?

Open the door.

Let me out.

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