the House with the Painted Door

November 15, 2009
My name is Katey and I live in the house with the painted door and no windows. I’m not sure how I came to be here, but then again I guess no one really is. I used to believe the door was real. I was happy to know I could leave if I chose. Until I made that choice and my knuckles met concrete where a three dimensional doorknob should have been. I was shocked and I was angry, but most of all I was alone without exit. I wonder how I came to be in this house with no doors or windows. Maybe I painted this door myself. Maybe this house is one great Freudian slip. Maybe this house isn’t anything at all. Quite possibly, I’m not either. I wish I had never discovered the painted door. If I had continued the illusion, I would be free, as convoluted as that may sound. Once I discovered the painted door, I created three somber windows to match. I saw myself on the other side of the pane. I was playing with train sets, like I did when I was 5 years old, my teenage skin thick with mud and ignorance. But when I looked into the all too existent mirror, I saw wrinkles extending downward, like parenthesis that told the secret story of my life and my labyrinth house. So I painted myself a cigarette, a blindfold, and a battalion of armed and sinister men, and waited in the way that can only be done in a house with a painted door.

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