The Door

I hope
You aren't like the door in my dream.
To keep walking along the corridor,
Desperately fumbling along, groping for the handle,
Eventually trying to forget that it even exists.

Sometimes the search
Feels like looking for my glasses underwater.
Blurry, like night vision through a rain-swept windshield.
As if I could fall off the edge in the darkness any minute.

Nothing hurts like the fog of doubt.
Not knowing whether to keep going,
Or stop trying,
And retreat with self-fabricated dignity.

Sometimes it's good to hurt.
To have life fling you into its deepest abyss.
The rock-hard bottom teaches you lessons.
Fulfillment might just be out of reach.

Or maybe,
I'm not dreaming.
Maybe the door is staring right at me,
And I have my eyes closed.