Monday, December 7, 2015
We’re born with one door that’s open to the world.
And by parlaying curiosity into experience, we fold more rooms into our selves. More rooms, with more doors, so the wind might howl through, occasionally reshuffling the blueprints themselves.
But then, it happens.
A resistance steals in, quietly. Closing the doors.
And the effort to open them—or to remember they were closed—becomes a blockade.
We shrink. Get rooted in.
And the wind?
It might rattle some panes, before moving on.
But not his, she thinks.
He’s young because he's kept the doors open.
She goes in.
Another 100 Words can be found here.