.daviddouglasgoode.

She stumbles down the hallway, half tripping on her long flowing dress as she goes. Her mangled hair acts as a screen to her eyes as she tries to see the way to the door. She wants to live the truth, a kind of eternal longing inside of her. She wants peace, happiness, justice. She wants a perfect world, a world complete with scones and cream...
Idealistic? Maybe.
She collects herself, straightens up and tilts her head. Her vision is blurry, her contact-less eyes make a clumsy job of her sight. Her emotional past seems all to much, like a giant in front of the exit, a cup of tea in bad company. The door stands lonely, compianonless. Its been open for far too long, waiting for her go through it.
Her dried tears make her cheeks taut. There are no more tears to cry. The floor boards are damp and eroded from the salt. She has cried a thousand oceans and nothing has changed. The only thing left to do is to leave through the door. She loves the house but, she loves the things that kill her. They are familiar, like a temporary beatitude, a bandaid over a gaping wound.

its time for her to leave. She accepts that nothing in that house can do it for her. The darkness has been her friend for too long. She picks up her bag and utters a sigh of resignation. She gives up. She gives up building her house. Her empire is no more.
She steps out and braves the air. There she is, raw and vulnerable. She sees the sky for the first time in its full beauty, vast and limitless, bright and refreshing. Perfect in every way. If only she knew to leave her house earlier. The door was always open, inviting but never forceful, requesting but never demanding. She has finally found truth, and will never let go.