The door is ajar

The door is ajar

A sharp thin beam of light is nose diving on the wooden floor. Scratches, dents, scores and spots are suddenly visible. In a first reaction. I want to shut the door. On a whim. I want everything to be like it was. A dark room. A dense world. A perfect floor.

A perfect floor, what is it good for? My hand is resting on the handle. As I ask myself this question. What is the use of a seemingly pristine surface? The idea that everything is accomplished? The suggestion of a world where everything is right. The idea that there is one place on this earth where still things are whole. Where nothing is broken. Yet.

What is whole. What is broken. My arm is getting heavier and heavier. I do not want to do this. I shouldn't ask myself these questions. Questions are fine if you are a researcher. An adventurer. Someone who has the need to know his existence. To grasp problems. To excavate the issues. Quantum mechanics. Vowel blend sounds. Gossen's second law. The concept of contingency.

But someone like me - the last reader of morning papers, a shy neighbour, a second hand chess player, a lover of fried potatoes with pickles - what should I scrutinize? It's the opposite. I'm somehow who needs  answers. Statements. Doctrines. Security. But doubts? Hesitation? Scepticism? I gladly leave them in the hands of daredevils.

Brave fellows who do not consider their homes as a fortress. Who don't love drawbridges. I adore smart drawbridges.

I love my moats teeming with witty alligators. I never understood how somebody can live without it. Walls to deter rapacious fears. Fences to repel ravenous dangers.

The door is open. Sunlight is blustering in. And is gaining more and more space. As if no approval has to be given. As nature can do what it pleases. Undaunted. Unconcerned.

Yesterday I discovered it. The door wouldn't close anymore. While it all those years  would shut without any trouble. Yesterday.

What I tried, it didn't matter. The door swung open after every closing ritual. Even when I got the help from two Polish plumbers (two brothers with yellowish hair and eyes as wild as aurochs). The problem couldn't be solved.

Ten minutes after they left my castle. The stood again ajar. Undaunted. Unconcerned.

The door is wide open. Waves of light or sailing in. What is happening? Where are my concerns that I might be allergic to sunlight? Where are my worries that life outside my fortification is forbidding? Shouldn't by now beats of sweat be trickling from my forehead? Shouldn't they turn into blood?

No perspiration. No blood. No angel to comfort me. Only this sunlight that plays around me as if my room is a carnival.

As if this world is a place where birds kiss the sky. Where koala bears hug the trees.