Sometimes a door is a mystery. Time has washed away its context, so the door stands midway up a wall, no clear access. The shadows inside ask as many questions as they answer. The green paint retains its bold color, but surely no one has painted this door in decades when the rest of the mill has fallen down around it. The red bricks act sentinel at the top. The wooden planks of the interior point in to the darkness at the center. Surely some kind of metaphor. The brain with its own vivid colors and its own interior mysteries? Or life itself, leaving us at times high above the ground, wondering how we got there and where we go next. Or maybe just an old green door amid stones and today’s graffiti to remind that it is still here.
Grendel or Darcy 