Ceenoa

The room was small. There was no furniture. There was no window.

The room was small, but had a spacious feeling, as if the walls were not actually there, as if they were not a solid object but a curtain that you could brush aside at will. The walls were coloured, ranging from galaxy black to soft blue-grey. If you stared at the darkest point and slowly turned, the effect was as if watching the night turning into the pre-dawn, and just where you would expect the sun to rise there was a door.

There was a door.

It wasn’t an ordinary door. It wasn’t a door made of wood or glass or metal. It shimmered with a ceaseless change of colour all across its’ surface. It pulsed in a gentle, off-beat, rhythmic way. It seemed to fade in and out of your vision, even though it was there all the time. The door pulled at you – to look deeper, to step closer, to touch that soft, silken waterfall of colours.

There was a sound.

A small, almost-not-there, gentle thread of undulating noise. If you concentrated you could not hear it. If you were not listening it crept into your head and vibrated through your whole body. It was seductive, sensual, innocent, full of life and joy, with a hint of wistful sadness for things that might have been. The sound warmed the soul, soothed the heart, acknowledged your pain, promised all good things.

The door and the sound were irresistible, intoxicating, addictive.

There was not enough time to look at the door. Not enough time to listen to the sound. The time-span of the Universe would not suffice. The need grew stronger, the pressure of it increasing to an almost intolerable point, a crescendo of unassuaged desire rushing through your body.

The sound stopped.

The door opened.

Your choice …

© ceenoa 29/4/2013