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My gates
26/01/2006
Sometime, on the bus or on foot I look to my sides and see or notice beautiful doors, splendid gates to houses I'll probably never know. I then start wondering and come to this conclusion -I'd like them open, because I like the idea of openness about them, because I might get to see their insides.
Small, beautiful gardens, a little sculpted bust perhaps, but then the door, the gate, the portal wouldn't be there anymore. There'd be entrances, which aren't things in themselves, in the same way a hole isn't a thing. They'd show me something new, though. A new world, perhaps that's what I look for in them. The Neverending Story comes to my mind then, or Borges' stories.
Keeping this on an earthly plane, still referring to me, I like to escape, and that's the obvious promise in every door. More beautiful doors would take me to more splendid places, though something is said about books and their covers which might apply here.
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