I dreamed of a door.

It was gold.

Not painted gold.

Not gilded leaf.

Solid.

Intricate.

Heavy.

I stood before it.

The handle was cold.

I turned it.

It did not turn.

I pushed.

It did not move.

I pulled.

It did not budge.

I kicked it.

The kick echoed.

The echo sounded wrong.

Too sharp.

Too clean.

I woke.

The ceiling was white.

Plaster.

Cracked.

A spider web in the corner.

I was in my cell.

Stone walls.

Cold air.

The air tasted of damp and old blood.

I was a guard.

I had always been a guard.

Or so I thought.

I wore the chainmail.

It bit into my shoulders.

The leather straps were stiff.

My sword was at my hip.

The leather scabbard was worn smooth.

I looked at my hands.

They were pale.

The nails were cut short.

No dirt under them.

That was wrong.

Guards have dirt.

Guards have mud.

Guards have the grit of the road under their fingernails.

My hands were clean.

Too clean.

Like a priest’s hands.

Like a scholar’s hands.

I touched my face.

My beard was trimmed.

My skin was soft.

I was not a soldier.

I was a keeper.

I kept something.

What did I keep?

The dream returned.

The golden door.

I closed my eyes.

I tried to remember the weight of the door.

It was heavy.

Heavier than a man.

Heavier than a horse.

Heavier than the stone of the tower.

I opened my eyes.

The cell was dark.

A single candle burned in the iron sconce.

The flame was steady.

No draft.

I looked at the wall.

The stone was grey.

The mortar was crumbling.

I saw a crack.

A thin line.

Like a vein.

It ran from the floor to the ceiling.

I traced it with my finger.

The stone was rough.

It bit into my skin.

A small bead of blood formed.

Red.

Bright.

It looked like the gold in the dream.

I frowned.

Why did I think of gold?

Gold was for kings.

Gold was for temples.

Gold was for things that mattered.

I was a guard.

I guarded the perimeter.

I patrolled the walls.

I checked the locks.

I never went inside.

The inside was forbidden.

The Lord said so.

The Lord said the inside was sacred.

The Lord said no eye but his own should see what lay within.

I obeyed.

I always obeyed.

But the dream was different.

In the dream, I was inside.

I stood before the door.

I knew the door.

I had seen it before.

I had touched it.

I had tried to open it.

And I had failed.

I failed because I was weak.

Or because I was wrong.

I sat on the straw mat.

The straw was dry.

It crunched under my weight.

I listened to the silence.

The silence was loud.

It pressed against my eardrums.

I thought of the Lord.

He was old.

His face was lined.

His eyes were blue.

Cold blue.

Like ice.

He spoke little.

When he did speak, it was with authority.

He commanded respect.

I respected him.

I feared him.

I loved him.

Or did I?

Love is a strange thing.

It is not always soft.

It is not always warm.

Sometimes it is a blade.

Sharp.

Cold.

It cuts you.

And you do not bleed.

You just feel the pain.

I looked at the candle.

The flame flickered.

A shadow moved on the wall.

My shadow.

It was distorted.

Long.

Thin.

Like a stick.

It did not move with me.

It stayed still.

I moved my hand.

The shadow’s hand did not move.

I froze.

I watched.

The shadow remained still.

Then it moved.

It raised its hand.

It pointed at the door of the cell.

The heavy oak door.

Iron banded.

Locked.

The shadow pointed at the lock.

The lock was a keyhole.

Small.

Dark.

I looked at my hand.

I had no key.

I was a guard.

I had keys.

I carried the master key.

It was on a chain around my neck.

I touched my neck.

The chain was there.

Cold.

Heavy.

The key was there.

I pulled it out.

It was iron.

Rusted.

The teeth were worn.

I looked at the lock.

I looked at the key.

They did not match.

The key was for the gate.

The gate to the yard.

The gate to the road.

Not for the cell.

Not for the inside.

I tried to insert the key.

It did not fit.

It was too large.

The teeth were too thick.

I shook my head.

I was confused.

Why did I want to open the door?

I was supposed to guard it.

I was supposed to keep it shut.

That was my duty.

That was my life.

But the dream...

The dream was not a duty.

The dream was a desire.

I wanted to open the door.

I wanted to see what was behind it.

I wanted to know the truth.

The truth is dangerous.

The truth is a fire.

It burns.

It consumes.

I looked at the wall again.

The crack was still there.

The drop of blood was drying.

It turned brown.

Then black.

Like ink.

I wiped it away.

The stain remained.

A small dot.

Like a period.

Ending a sentence.

I began to remember.

Not the dream.

The waking.

I was not always a guard.

I was a scribe.

I wrote letters.

I copied texts.

I worked in the library.

The library was warm.

The smell of parchment and ink.

I liked it.

I liked the quiet.

I liked the words.

Then the Lord came.

He took me.

He said I had a gift.

A gift for loyalty.

A gift for silence.

He gave me the armor.

He gave me the sword.

He gave me the chain.

He gave me the key.

He took my quill.

He broke my pen.

He burned my books.

I watched them burn.

The pages curled.

The ink blackened.

The words died.

I did not speak.

I did not cry.

I took the armor.

I took the sword.

I took the chain.

I took the key.

I became a guard.

I forgot the library.

I forgot the words.

I forgot the quiet.

I forgot myself.

I was only a guard.

But the dream...

The dream was the library.

The golden door was the door to the library.

The handle was the quill.

The weight was the weight of the truth.

I had tried to open it.

I had failed.

I had broken my pen.

I had burned my books.

I had betrayed my self.

I had betrayed my mind.

I had chosen the sword over the quill.

I had chosen the guard over the scribe.

I had chosen the lie over the truth.

And now I was here.

In the cell.

Waiting.

The candle burned low.

The wax dripped.

The flame was small.

I looked at the door.

The iron lock.

I looked at the key.

The iron key.

I realized something.

The key was not for the door.

The key was for me.

It locked me in.

It kept me here.

It kept me silent.

It kept me obedient.

I was not a guard.

I was a prisoner.

My own prisoner.

I had locked myself in.

I had chosen the cage.

I had chosen the gold.

The gold was the lie.

The gold was the safety.

The gold was the peace.

The truth was the fire.

The truth was the pain.

The truth was the loss.

I wanted the truth.

But I was afraid.

I was afraid of the fire.

I was afraid of the loss.

I was afraid of myself.

I looked at my hands.

The clean hands.

The soft hands.

The hands that had broken the pen.

The hands that had burned the books.

The hands that had chosen the sword.

I closed my eyes.

I thought of the golden door.

I thought of the handle.

I thought of the weight.

I thought of the failure.

I opened my eyes.

The candle was out.

The room was dark.

The darkness was total.

I could not see my hands.

I could not see the wall.

I could not see the door.

I was in the void.

The void was quiet.

The void was still.

I breathed.

My breath was audible.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

I was alone.

I was truly alone.

There was no Lord.

There was no duty.

There was no armor.

There was no sword.

There was no key.

There was only me.

And the truth.

The truth was here.

In the dark.

In the silence.

In the breath.

It was small.

It was fragile.

It was mine.

I had to keep it.

I had to protect it.

Not with a sword.

Not with a chain.

Not with a key.

With my heart.

With my mind.

With my soul.

I sat in the dark.

I waited for the light.

The light would come.

It always comes.

The dawn.

The sun.

The fire.

I would open the door.

Not the golden door.

The door in my mind.

The door to the library.

The door to the self.

I would pick up the quill.

I would write the truth.

I would speak the word.

I would break the silence.

I would break the lie.

I would break the gold.

I would be free.

Or I would die.

Either way.

I would be myself.

The darkness began to fade.

A grey light appeared.

The first light of morning.

It touched the wall.

It touched the floor.

It touched my face.

It was cold.

It was soft.

It was real.

I stood up.

My legs were stiff.

My joints cracked.

I walked to the door.

I placed my hand on the wood.

It was solid.

It was warm.

I pushed.

The door opened.

The light flooded in.

Blinding.

Beautiful.

I stepped out.

Into the yard.

The grass was wet.

The air was fresh.

I took a deep breath.

I filled my lungs.

I held it.

I let it go.

I was alive.

I was free.

I was a scribe.

I was a man.

I was whole.

I walked to the gate.

The iron gate.

I did not look back.

I did not touch the key.

I did not wear the armor.

I walked out.

Into the world.

Into the light.

Into the truth.

The golden door was behind me.

It was broken.

It was shattered.

It was gone.

And I was free.