Life is a series of bitter failures and minor victories. Life is full of drugs. Little red door. If there were a road through the window. I mean to say, if there were a road visible through the window... an entire road. All of the road, and it's surroundings, obviously not comprehensible to the human eye. As though, upon cracking open the door, a feeling stirs in you. If you've ever felt the urge to move, to leave, to carry on. To travel. That feeling, but a little different. That feeling, mixed with a resigned gratitude for the road that lay ahead. And you can see it all. Not with your eyes, but you can see every inch of hard black tar. Not with your ears, but you can hear the birds of a thousand trees. Not with your nose, but you can smell the dusty rocks and the dewy pines. And feeling that all at once is what makes the feeling. What makes it momentous and powerful. Is there a breeze on your face, drifting from the farthest reaches of red and brown and green? Your mouth is smiling, and the breeze tastes good. It tastes how I imagine fall tastes. There will be no trek though. No hills and no long voyage. You're just peering through a little red door.

When is a door not a door?

When it's ajar.