Door

I want to tell you about a big house I once lived in. After we'd been evicted, I returned while workmen were taking it apart, and commenting on what an amazing building it was. They were so impressed that I had actually lived there at some point. The removal of one of the inside doors became an exposition on architecture and interior design, with the emphasis on doors. Apparently this was a perfect example of a rare and high quality door, much feted and sought after in the circles that door enthusiasts move in. I was left with the definite impression that these door freaks thought that poor ignorant me had missed a perfect opportunity here, having lived in the house without knowing what was under my nose. In their professional (the "old 'door" profession, that is) opinion I should have ripped it out and sold the thing.
But listen. I it's not that I didn't know, or whether I did or didn't. The point is, I didn't care. I lived there, and I used the fucking door, I opened it and closed it, I put the wood in the hole, and I thought it was great ' as a door. If that door had a soul, it would have been soaring the outer reaches of heaven in absolute bliss, having reached its highest potential, with a little help from me. It's creator, (not god, but the door-building carpenter/joiner guy) would feel like his life was complete, god was in his heaven and everything was right with the world, because his door was fulfilling its need, by being opened and shut on a regular basis. Its inherent doorness was being realised, several times a day, (and often at night, we were a lively bunch living there at the time). But I said none of this; I just looked around, and remembered.