<p>Part IV</p>
<p>*Blink.</p>
<p>Blink.</p>
<p>Blink.</p>
<p>In front of me are what appear to be a thousand doors. Maroon doors. Wide doors. Double doors. </p>
<p>A payphone stands off to the side. </p>
<p>Wait. Didn’t I just go skydiving? I can’t remember exactly how it ended, but I’m sure that I wouldn’t have somehow wound up in this odd place. </p>
<p>The dreidels. The dreidels. Wait. What dreidels. </p>
<p>Those were rooftops. </p>
<p>I had attempted suicide.</p>
<p>Doesn’t seem like I succeeded … but I’m not in a hospital either. </p>
<p>The payphone rings. Wait. I need to make a call. I can’t make a call when it’s ringing. I want to call … I can’t remember. Oh well.*</p>
<p>“Hello?” </p>
<p>“This is God. I am very disappointed in your decision to commit suicide. I hereby direct you to step through that maroon door to your …”</p>
<p>*Clanging. *</p>
<p>“Je m’appelle Albert Camus. Although I commend your adherence to your free will, I cannot condone your decision to commit suicide. Therefore …”</p>
<p>*I’m not going to be lectured to. I’m going to pick a door, a path, a kismet. Isn’t that what we all do? Our parents, by accident or by circumstance, brought us two together. The smallest change – a flap of a butterfly’s wings – could have changed everything. But it all worked out in the end. </p>
<p>The puzzle fell together and we met. Although I can’t remember your name, and everything about you is only a vague memory, I do remember the ecstasy of those heady high school days. And after high school ended, we picked separate doors, walked through them, and closed them behind us. But when God closes a door, he opens another. </p>
<p>And this is just going to be another one of those decisions into which we completely lack prescience. Of these myriad doors, I don’t know which ones will lead to happiness. To melancholy. To pensiveness. To longing. To despair. To remembrance – perhaps my ultimate happiness. </p>
<p>I am by myself; there is no one with whom I can journey. If you – whoever you are! – were here, perhaps we can tackle the darkness collectively. But you are not here. I know, because there is no one here but myself. I’ll just have to pick a door, take a deep breath, and step beyond the threshold, making sure to put my best foot forward. </p>
<p>The grayish door appeals to me. It has a small cat hole, it appears. It also has a small rectangular window. The windows appears to be segmented. Upon closer examination, there are bars behind the glass. Bolts line the perimeter of the door. I tap the door a few times with my knuckles. It is clearly metal. </p>
<p>The knob is like ice. The door swings open as if it were freshly lubricated. </p>
<p>Am I staring down a black hole? </p>
<p>I put the palm of my right hand against the palm of my left hand. There is really something oddly reassuring in familiarity. But instead of interlocking the fingers, I line the fingers up. </p>
<p>Interestingly, the fingers all are of equal length. The other hand also feels calloused; rough - not smooth and silky. These sensations are new, and do not jibe with my memories … </p>
<p>And I dive headfirst into the darkness.</p>
<p>Blink.</p>
<p>Blink.</p>
<p>Blink.</p>
<p>But I do not see.*</p>
<p>Inspiration: 1,000 Doors by Choi Jeong-Hwa</p>