The Door

As I write this, a few doors are getting closed behind.

I step out of the door. Subconsciously, I am aware, that I am stepping out for the last time, out of this door. I would not be stepping in back again. I know it, its not my whims and fancy's it s the dictum of time, which has arrived to part. For certain things its a daunting fact. Relinquishing the old, for the new. The old has to die for the new to be born. No matter, how-much so ever, one would like to hold on to the old into the future too. Thats where we were gifted with memory. Memory distinctly unlike other imaginations.

So thats what happens, when you look things closely, you just might re-surrect a dead chirst for another incarnation of three years, and eventually hung over on cross, then on a church and over the sands of time. Or like hear the last click of the door closing the room, closing up a memory, few windows, few walls, and invaluable moments, all locked inside, in the lonesome wish to immortalize a memory.