Of Parchments And Moist Cheeks

On the stone cold floor of his mind, he walks.

The journey's been long, the time short.

At a distance he can see the trapdoor that hides the abyss of his existence.

Edging closer, he stops dead in his track.

He picks up the piece of parchment left behind with a fairly smudged note on it.

"Beyond this door, lie your deepest fears.

Beyond this door, reside your thoughts unthought.

You have come a long way, you have been brave.

Why be afraid of fear when fear is afraid of itself?

I urge you to open this door again. And again. And again."

He smirks, he recognizes the scrawly handwriting.

He holds the parchment close as though embracing it.

He looks back at it, a brand new smudge.

He brings out the quill tentatively.

He could swear his hands shivered every so slightly as he added "And again."

He looks back at the trapdoor and sighs.

His fingers tremble as he wipes away his moist cheeks.

He looks up at the ceiling less room

One last time.

Gathering up the last ounce of courage, he grabs the cold bronze handle.

After all this is what makes him feel most alive.