The Keyhole Speaks

The door, it waits. I can hear it breathing, a gentle whisper against the wood. Not a door, really. Not a door at all. A portal? A promise? Oh, what lies beyond is veiled in mystery, isn't it? More than mere wood and frame, a metaphorical embrace, perhaps.

Have I walked these halls before? The shadows seem familiar, a whisper of a memory yet to come. Or past? The keyhole beckons, tenderly, like a forgotten lover's sigh. The world's a blur. Each step echoes in the caverns of my mind, resounding, resounding...

There's a secret in the walls, isn't it? A heartbeat, perhaps? Is it mine? Or is it the walls talking, a hushed confession to the curious? I feel it—a pulse, a rhythm; or is it the rhythm of my thoughts, tangled and weaving through the maze of yesterday's dreams?

Why do we seek openings, exits, entrances? Maybe it's not about the destination, but the thrill of peering through... just a peek. The keyhole, a universe unto itself. A commitment to possibility. A surrender to what-if.

Open the door, or just peer through the keyhole? The choice is an illusion, a trick of light and shadow. Maybe the door remains, maybe it fades, like the boundaries of dreams when dawn creeps in. Will you dare? Or will you just watch?