Red Door Road

    I walked past the red door one day, and me thinks that door doth mocked me.  In the foggy distance, I knew what awaited me, and, contently—too contently, I suppose—I gaited onwards while glancing back at that mysterious, red door.  Should that door remain closed, I thought briskly to myself, I would not dare to enter.  It suffocated me to see the door as it was, surrounded by those bricks, those red bricks that towered to the heavens.  Even if I tried to enter, to intrude upon the door and barge into the unknown, I knew that those bricks would clatter onto my path.  So I ventured further, further away from the red door until wood and bedecked bricks merged.

    A few weeks later, I found myself on that oh so familiar path, and I saw the red door once more, barring my intrusion yet daring me to force entry.  It was mocking me again, always making a joke of my weathered path, the door being a cruel sort.  Just then, a withering, old man greeted the door, crutching a cane and carrying red books, and opened the door with great ease.  This was my chance to walk through that hollow doorframe unnoticed, and I rushed to the door before it closed, knowing that it could be a long while before I had another chance.  After reaching the door, I hesitated.  Rays of golden light protruded from the half open door, and I heard the sounds of babies crying, of accusations and rebuttals, of booming thunder and cheers of joy.  My blood ran cold, and I couldn’t move.  I couldn’t breathe.  As quickly as the door had opened, it closed.  I drifted away from the red door down the beaten road, yet the door didn’t laugh at me this time.  It just glared at the back of my head as I rushed into the fog.

    Over the course of a month, I fretted about in my room, thinking about that door, that red door.  I even went so far as to dream about the door, and, in my dreams, the door was always open, smiling at me whenever I would grace it with my presence.  Almost every time I dreamt about the door, however, I would abruptly awake in a cold sweat after promenading through it, or, worse still, I would enter only to find a cold, dark room most unpleasant indeed.  Ignorant about the door and its mysteries, I read book upon book about it and discovered that there were many ways to open the door, but I decided that each method would be much too difficult for me to perform.  I even skimmed through a book that discussed that the door was something that had feelings, and, once ignored, the door would cease to open.  The thought of this depressed me, so I decided to neglect the book, and take another route to reach the familiar fog.

    Day after day, I ambled on through this new path void of any door altogether, and, although this newfound way was longer than the red door’s road, I found happiness in the fact that I would neither be mocked nor scorned for my trek.  Soon, day begat day, the calendar pages turned briskly on my wall and two years passed before my eyes.  In time, I even grew to forget about the red door and its treacheries.  I would often look at myself in the mirror, combing my dark, brown hair to pass the time, and I noticed that I had grown older, though, in my mind, I felt as young as I had the first time I saw the red door.  Whenever that face would smile on the seeing glass before me, I detected a sense of guilt and unease, but I didn’t know why.  Boredom struck me often, though, as I sifted through the same books about nothing and watched senseless comedies no longer humorous or uplifting.  It became my plan to pursue a new path to the fog to remedy this monotony.

    To my greatest dissatisfaction, I trotted upon the red door’s road, and, all at once, memories of mockery and scorn invaded my mind.  In order to avoid the door’s unwelcoming demeanor, I skirted across the street, where the door’s insults could not reach me.  While strolling by, I regarded the red door and its surroundings.  The red paint was still as perfect as always, and, from this distance, it seemed as though the paint bled from the wooden paneling.  I observed brick after brick of the conjoining towers, and they appeared even higher than I remembered.  Old friends of mine approached the red door, and it glided open for them.  One by one, I called out to them, hoping that they would recognize me, but they just kept marching toward that red door and the golden rays within.  A bum nearby offered me a drink of cheap Vodka, but I refused.  I rushed across the street to the silent, closed, red door. 

    The red door pitied me, I think, but it wouldn’t budge.  I laughed at the door, swearing that I would stand by its side for as long as it took me to open it.  Thinking back on my reading, I tried to recall the methods of opening the red door, and I cursed myself for having forgotten their lessons.  Suddenly, one memory appeared to me, and it told to wait for the old man, who spoke to the door.  That’s what one book had declared; to ask for help from those more knowledgeable than thou would show the door your humbleness and desire to improve.  Weeks passed before the old man finally appeared, and I asked for his help which he supplied.  Walking through the door, I saw what I had feared all these years, but I was ready for it now.  The golden light comforted me as I entered the storm.