Dear Pen Pal,
They are just shapes. Squares. Angles. Equations. Ninety degrees. Trees turned inside out and shorn of hairy leaves. Decades of breathing taught me they were doors.
[ dôr ] : A sign of entering. A revelation of more. Barrier of protection.
One lover told me I was like one of those metal doors at banks with thousands of coded locks attached. Said I was unapproachable, impossible to open and enter.
This is a lie, pen pal. I am the one who has called myself this.
Doors can be painted in bright hues, some have awnings above them. Some have stained glass slits of sunshine’d colors coming through.
Doors can be heavy. Some can be see-through screens with aeration.
Doors can be purchased from hardware stores; doors can be made from found wood from backyards or the bush.
All of this is a metaphor for you.
Humans can be doors that upon twisting that knob of language, adventure and magic is born.
Humans are like doors in that they are tall & safe & protective & calm & still.
It was just after 7pm (or so) and a door walked through a door wearing a cap and suspenders and a room that had no meaning suddenly grew grass, acres of hyacinths and wildflowers of impossible colors.
This door was you.
We are surrounded by doors, which are doors. We are surrounded by doors, which are humans. Those who remind us to walk through, to get out, to wander. To explore.
How lucky. How beautiful. That I have fallen in love with the most booming of doors to ever welcome me through.