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I stood before it, and it before me. Two french doors concealed a world of failure. To open the doors would be to remove what is right, pure and what I have spent so much time to achieve.
To open the doors would be fulfilling desires, hungers and quelling pain.
I would not open the doors.
But doors are trickier than given credit for. These polished planks of wood hang on hinges while taunting minds. We have a conversation, the cupboard makes small talk. I'm polite and converse back, while remaining tense. One slip could tumble into weakness and failure. Words are ever so cunning.
I would turn away you see, were my feet not glued to the ground with turmoil. It would be so easy to just take one, two steps to the left and be in a whole new room. A room without cupboards. In the aftermath I see how easy turning away would be, but in the anguish moments of now it's damn near impossible.
"No" I say to the cupboards. But they ignore because they know there was little soul behind that shout. I weigh my options. Walk away in these concrete shoes? Full Fantasia, and take an axe to the damned cupboards? Open the doors? All the options seem ridiculous but possible.
As I ponder the cupboards grow bored with me. Unimpressed by my resistance, they lose their lustre. I would not say this is a battle won, but a battle just growing.