It's ten feet away, the door, and the next door another ten, and the final door forty in all. One door isn't even closed, just there. How some people can move through these doors with such relative ease fills me with such jealousy and curiosity. How do you do it?

There are words for this, I know. I would like to put a word on it, just so I can blame something other than myself. But I do blame myself. I know it's not my fault exactly but it still seems so stupid, so pointless, to be this way.

And anyway it is my fault. There were other versions of me I could have been. I chose this one or at least it feels like I did. I couldn't have always been so scared of the door.

When characters in books move through doors, it feels so fake, so staged. It feels so counter to what I am... which is essentially in this room.

I am essentially in this room.

When characters in books listen to other people, it feels so fake, so staged. I don't listen to other people. I try to listen but I've already made up my mind. I'm already thinking about what to make you listen to next.

Look. I made a real effort to be here, okay? As for you, you must want to be here because I've never heard you talk about the doors or the stairs or the turnstyle or the doors again or sitting there or geting off or the stairs again or going there. I never hear you talk about it. How do you...?

Nevermind.