I see a doorway. A plain, heavy, white doorway, at the end of the hall. It's a long hall, with doors all down the sides. But those doors are all open. I can only see into the rooms nearest me, a little farther away I see just a portion of the side walls, the later just the doorjam. The doors near the last door, the closed door, are just frames to me, at this angle.
At this moment, only the farthest door holds any interest to me. I believe it is my human curiosity, combined with my sense of symmetry that does this to me. In this hallway, 50 doors on either side, I care nothing for room 27 (halfway down, on the right), even less for room 12 (6 doors down on the left). I wonder only at door 101. It has no number. I can't see that from here, but I know it won't when I approach. I know this becuase I've seen the door before, and because it would be silly to think that it would be numbered. Door number 101 isn't the same. Door number 101 might be more like door number 1 that hangs open and empty behind me.
I could say that my curiosity extends to every room in the hall, that the only reason I will not explore them all is because I have been here before. That is a lie. I have already seen all there is to see here (and probably more), save the last door. But that is not why I feel no urge to search these rooms. Truth knows that I never felt strongly curious about any of the rooms. Not until I found I could never know what lies beyond door number 101. The first time I arrived I acted much as I act now: single minded, callous, and unexcited by these peripheral portals. I stride quickly down the hallway, with nary a glance to the rooms I pass.
This floor of the building (all I know of the building) has all sorts of rooms. There are living rooms, small apartments, hospital rooms, playrooms, and a garage with large and locked doors, save the one always open to the hallway. This building, this floor (are there others? What is behind door 101?) is insanity. It's diverse and without discernible order. I am convinced the rooms rearrange themselves between my visits. And it is utterly devoid of life.
The first time I entered the yellow playroom with pastel hot air balloons plasteres to the walls, a modest beach call rolled across the floor, as though abandoned. I had to catch a tea kettle once, as it whistled away into steam. The kettle almost burnt before I found the room by sound. Everything echoes here.
It is a dream landscape. It is filled with my memory, I think. There are some rooms I have no present memory of, but with the number of recognizable rooms filling this hall, I've come to believe these unknown have merely been buried beneath my concious mind.
There is an empty circus tent, one wall hard and predictable, the others fabric, light, red, flowing with an unknown breeze. It is presumably constructed of the vague memory of the circus I visited in Germany at the the tender age of three.
Sometimes the hall seems to hum with sounds just ceased.
I am tired of this world. There is only one ending to this dream, as is usual in dreams of this nature. I know I must open the final door. No matter how long I spend within the rooms and spinal hall, there is no waking until the Door is opened. Once I sliced myself, from elbow crook to wrist (a wound most often deadly before the second arm is harmed) with a serated bread knife I found in a drawer in my grandmother's kitchen. It was her tea kettle I once let burn. I bled the Euphrates before I ended the pain. I'm not sure how I got the Door open with my warm, slippery mess all over the handle.
In the end I open the Door. I open it to a whiteness so bright it fills my ears with blindness.
I wake up to darkness, screaming and thrashing at my ignorance. I calm and cry myself into a second sleep, now dreamless.