There is a man in a room.
The room is dimly lit and not a nice place to be.
In the wall opposite where the man sits is a door.
This door leads to a better place.
Light creeps through the gaps between the door and the frame,hinting at what the man knows is a better place to be.
The door is not locked.
It never has been.
The man knows this.
The man knows all he has to do is get up, walk across the room, open the door and walk through it.
He's opened the door before.
He's stepped through the door before but somehow ended up back here.
He has paced this floor,getting close to the door but keeps finding himself unable to pass thorough.
The thing that stops him be knows well, but that is not of much help right now.
It's black tendrils, like smoke,flow around him.
The man fights a battle he might not win.
The man is me.
An original piece by me.