Closing The Door

People need closure.

People need closure to move on.

'Goodbye' is one such door.

Here in Welly, I say 'see ya' a lot, in lieu of 'goodbye', and I nearly always mean what I say - if I told you that, then I prolly will you again. These past couple of days, I found myself saying 'see ya' when I really meant 'goodbye'; and whenever I'd said it, I'd hear, in my mind, the echo of the door sliding shut, its lock clicking in place.

The doors need not be closed permanently (though, sometimes, some doors are double-bolted for good measure), but they have to be shut; if they weren't shut, I can't move on. (I think it's one of those gifts that come free with every lot of anal-retentiveness dispensed.) When I say goodbye, it's forever ... unless and/or until we meet again - if ever.

It's always distressing to shut a door. Sometimes, you don't have a choice ... or, rather, as Doreen'd always liked to remind us: you have a choice - you always have a choice. But, as I always say, if it's a choice between pile of shit and a mound of crap, then it's not really much of a choice, is it? Because, either way, you'd still be fucked, and standing knee-deep in feculence.

The choices in shutting doors, as far as I can see with my speccies, are: shut it now, or, shut it later - a drawn-out agonizing death, or a quick excruciating one.

Like I've said: it's not really much of choice.

It's always distressing to shut a door because once it's shut, you can't reopen it and expect to find things exactly as you've left it. I think we all lead circular lives, and, unfortunately for us, time is linear and unrelentingly progressive; once you've left, you can't go back - try as you might, you just cannot go back again.

Sometimes, you don't and won't dare to go back: you don't want to betray the memories you have of that particular place. I'll always want to visit Kristianstad and Copenhagen again, but I guess I never will.

Will I ever be back in Welly?

Who knows, eh?



You're taking a deep breath, girding your mental loins. You take one last look around, wishing you have an eidetic memory, hoping the image will last; then, you reach out for the door knob and gently pull it shut. The lock clicks in place, and the door is closed.

You walk away, straining to keep your heart - the one that has countless patches over it from previous breakages - in one piece. You don't cry because you can't cry.

You shouldn't look back because, then, you'll not notice when you wander through a new, open door ...