• You see a big door in front of you, and you are lost. There are people there to guide you, you don’t really know to where, or that you needed guidance. Maybe your thoughts are not that deep, so filled with uncommon comprehension: maybe you don’t know that you are lost, maybe you don’t know that they are there to help you. Your mother told you, you are sick. Your father made you cry. You want to get better, you promised to get better, just please don’t let me go there, don’t make me, I don’t want it please. Your last words were not heard, you mumbled, you wanted to say that you were sorry so badly that you couldn’t in the very end. I’m sorry. I’m sorry it had to be this way.

    And then you enter. You didn’t want to. They made you. They opened the doors; blue, grey, salty. You can’t smell it, you want to taste it. Feel that glassy door in your mouth, in your tongue. Are you sick?
    You are not sneezing; your head doesn’t feel funny.
    Mother said you were sick in your head.
    And you feel like crying because you don’t know what it means.

    Everything is white, dazzling, unkind. You wish you had no eyes and then you cry again. You hear the silence. It’s morbid, consuming, feeding of you. And you don’t cry anymore because you are afraid of the silence. It doesn’t last long, for the others anyway because for you it lasted just enough.
    Just enough to make you die.
    They step in front of you, and they carry you with them. Your arm aches but you don’t say a thing. They don’t listen anyway, adults never do. They wouldn’t have missed the silence and they would have backed away, away from there –
    Back home.

    You notice the stairs. How could you not notice those stairs? They are big, giant, immense. They suck you in; the colours, the sounds, the feelings. And you wonder how can such thing not be felt, heard or seen and yet be so big, so much more than you. Maybe you are too young to understand. That’s what adults keep telling you. What a funny word: Adults. It’s one of those words that does not describe its subject. It doesn’t taste and leaves it all to surprise, not a clue, not a sound, not a tone. Leaves nothing, nothing there behind for you to touch. And you ask daddy, what does that mean?, he will just repeat himself over and over again. You know it, deep in your sick head. You are too young to understand.
    Everyone repeats themselves so much, you wonder if everything should be done in pairs.
    But that’s just one of those things you are too young to understand.