The Ambivalent Spoon

Doors

"How many doors do you have? We all have doors, I have three. How many do you think you've unlocked?"
-A question I was once asked

"What's your favourite colour?"
She glanced up from the book she was reading, a coy smile lifting the corners of her mouth. He still sat as before, his back resting against the sofa on which she sat, eyes transfixed to the screen that displayed his character running unfalteringly through an electronic world, shooting zombies with machine guns.
Seemingly oblivious to my very existence. For a moment she wondered if she'd imagined his speech.
"hmm?" he prompted.
She paused a moment longer to consider her answer. A simple 'green' may cut short this unprecedented opportunity. They'd been dating for a little over a month, but conversation had hitherto remained somewhat impersonal and external. Essentially superficial exchanges about the latest trends in music, the movies they watched, the food they ate, the people they passed, and their favourite anecdotes that they'd told a hundred times, to a hundred others. Conversation had never turned to a direct and seemingly random interest in her personal preferences before. She opted to risk a more revealing answer; if he wanted to know her better, she was ready to allow it.
"The colour of my mothers eyes. Of fresh new leaves in Springtime, of long stalks of grass swaying in a Summer meadow, of sweet smelling pine needles and of the perfect, deep, still lagoon I once had all to myself when I discovered it in a hidden cove on holiday." 
She waited then. Was that what he'd wanted? Would he accept the invitation?
He paused his game, turned around to look her directly in the eye and gave her a heart-rending smile. They shared the moment, silently she welcomed him through the door he'd just unlocked.
"It's the colour of your eyes too" he said. "Now come here and kiss me."

 * * * * * 

We all have doors. For the most part we keep them locked tight. Behind these doors lie our secrets, our fears, our lies, our truest desires, our fondest wishes, our kinkiest fantasies, our most sordid memories, our loves, our hates, our humiliations, our victories: our selves.
We let everyone walk through the large, glass, automatic doors at the surface of our selves, to take a look at everything we want to display. All the artificial colours and flavours, the gloss, the shiny packaging, the best buys and recommendations. It is a select few that gain access to the warehouse of our soul, where thoughts, desires and memories are piled high in boxes, chilled or frozen to be kept for interminable years.
Beyond the warehouse, there's an office with a locked filing cabinet. This is where the parts of us reside that are never going to be boxed for possible display, but perhaps some trusted person may come to hold the key. They may come to rest a while in the office and ponder the contents of those files. Set in the back wall of the office, behind the dusty portrait of some stern and unapproachable old man, is the safe.
Does anyone ever gain access to the safe? Or do its contents remain private and turn cold with us as we lie in our graves? Perhaps a better question is 'should anyone be granted access to the safe?'. Is there a point where sharing our selves ceases to be an intimate joy? Are there some doors that should remain forever locked to everyone? Can we ever completely trust somebody?

I'll leave that thought with you. I don't know the answer.
Over the course of this blog the reader will catch glimpses through the keyholes of my doors and the secret worlds that lie behind them. Perhaps one day you can say you know me, you recognise my true self, though we've never met. Or perhaps I'll remain a stranger and my words will just be stories.