The Secret Door

The door looked unassuming, unimposing and yet intimidation emanated unstintedly from each of its rusty planks. Many a time she had stood before it, reminiscent of what was behind it, but within merely a fleeting moment, she would hurry to catch up on her daily agenda. Today was no different it seemed. Only this time something seemed to call to her, faintly but with marked desperation. Her trembling palm touched the rough surface and the door gave way with a muffled screeching sound.

A long corridor wound its way up like an elaborate staircase. Her gaze ran along it until she lost count of the floors. Evidently, there once had been a carpet softening the marble cold ground; pale colour imprints could be spotted dancing in circular shapes, scattered along the hall. For the most part, however, the surface was as if scrubbed off of all patterns and hues and was now becoming achromatic, monotone, devoid of character and individuality.

Faltering steps led her further into this bizarre, yet perfectly familiar place. Low archways decorated the corridor on both sides. She ventured into the closest one, only to find herself on an open balcony suffused with sunlight and warmth. A panel of wrought iron trellis curved its way from wall to wall. Lavender blue wisteria flowers crawled along the metal bars, joined by purple clematis, luscious pink roses, tender white jasmine and lime green golden hops to weave exquisite wreathes of Edenic idyll. A wicker swing floated gently nearby, heaped with bohemian cushions of vivid colours and peculiar shapes. Still, something was perceptibly missing and she was painfully aware.

The next archway was hiding a dark niche that housed a single plain table. A Murano glass bowl much like a sculpture of melted caramel with merging browns and amber golds, constituted the centrepiece. Petite fragments of potpourri were strewn around in a daring attempt to reconstruct some quizzical constellation with dried herbs and flowers. A half peeled orange nestled inside the bowl, its nectarous fragrance permeated the air and gave it a tropical exotic zest. Still, something was perceptibly missing and she was painfully aware.

The ocean waves were whispering a magical tale of yore as she approached the third archway. Turquoise streams spoke of faraway kingdoms and fairy princesses, azure currents sang with the melodious enchantment of mermaids and sirens, while emerald waters swept up the fictional with their invigorating vibrancy and splashed onto the shore studding the beach with ephemeral pearls of foam. A sea deity seemed at play here, crowned with a sandy glistening crown, sulking at a jelly fish one moment, beaming with joy at a queer-shaped conch the next. Still, something was perceptibly missing and she was painfully aware.

The desperate plea resounded in her ears, but she felt helpless, weak and paralysed. Her imagination had called to her before, had often begged to share its treasures, to be once again dived into for it had innumerable archways that could lead to a myriad of places. All it needed was time to complete the images, to bring them to life in her paintings that remained forever unfinished up in the attic – a token of inaptitude and a symbol of unfulfillment and disillusionment. Mundaneness had set in and was slowly destroying the cherished world that used to be ablaze with creative ardour. She walked out the door. Another pattern vanished from the floor.