There was once a very handsome young lad who found a key under a pebble by the beach on a moonlit night. He tried the key and soon after found that it could unlock any door in the world. He unlocked car doors and drawers and wardrobes and cases and helped numerous people and got into plenty of fun mischief. Then, slowly, there came a time where he began to wonder about the most special door that could be opened with his key.
So he traveled the world, trying on all sorts of locks and pegs. The key, in its magical, miraculous nature, could open each and every one of them. Even the special locks for lovers that people tie up on bridges. As the events unfolded, the more doors he unlocked, the more frustrated he grew. He became consumed with the very thought of that designated door. It felt important, significant, monumental, for the key to belong and be paired with one particular door. What was this key for? Was it not searching for its door?
One day, as he was ambling about the same beach in this beginning, he looked up and saw a door standing in the middle of the sea. It was a lone, white wooden door, no walls, no ceilings, nothing he could see beyond or behind save for the waves and the sky. He raced towards it, his heart beating the thunder of a thousand drums. This is it, he knew. He inserted the magic key, cautiously. It clicked, faltered, stopped. Soon, it became apparent that the door would not open, at all! He twisted and turned. He attempted trials with twigs, sticks, other keys, sea shells. He tried to pick the door up on its frame but it wouldn't budge. How could this be?
He sank to his knees, the salt water lapping against his waist, and clutched the key. He was so close to his goal. So wallowed in misery, he didn't notice a bright little butterfly coming towards him. It dipped down and took the key gently from his hands. He watched as the frail, beautiful creature flew away with his enchanted key. The wind gusted around his hair, whispering in his ears. He couldn't comprehend the sheer magnitude of his loss, or the weight that was suddenly lifted from his soul. He stood up and looked at the door. He clutched the brass knob in his hands, gave a little push. The door opened.
Through it he saw the incarnation of his wildest fantasies. He gazed at gigantic, glowing stars and flaming, twinkling galaxies. There were sails and comets that stretched and soared into an infinite sky, colours which took flight and the music of the universe ringing in his ears. It was at that moment that he realised the best, most special doors did not need keys. That they could be opened only by and with himself, his own belief, his own needs and goals. That journeys and destinations could be disparate, but united even with the flimsiest string. Behind him, the sea foamed and the wind roared.
The boy stepped through that door. He was never seen again.
So he traveled the world, trying on all sorts of locks and pegs. The key, in its magical, miraculous nature, could open each and every one of them. Even the special locks for lovers that people tie up on bridges. As the events unfolded, the more doors he unlocked, the more frustrated he grew. He became consumed with the very thought of that designated door. It felt important, significant, monumental, for the key to belong and be paired with one particular door. What was this key for? Was it not searching for its door?
One day, as he was ambling about the same beach in this beginning, he looked up and saw a door standing in the middle of the sea. It was a lone, white wooden door, no walls, no ceilings, nothing he could see beyond or behind save for the waves and the sky. He raced towards it, his heart beating the thunder of a thousand drums. This is it, he knew. He inserted the magic key, cautiously. It clicked, faltered, stopped. Soon, it became apparent that the door would not open, at all! He twisted and turned. He attempted trials with twigs, sticks, other keys, sea shells. He tried to pick the door up on its frame but it wouldn't budge. How could this be?
He sank to his knees, the salt water lapping against his waist, and clutched the key. He was so close to his goal. So wallowed in misery, he didn't notice a bright little butterfly coming towards him. It dipped down and took the key gently from his hands. He watched as the frail, beautiful creature flew away with his enchanted key. The wind gusted around his hair, whispering in his ears. He couldn't comprehend the sheer magnitude of his loss, or the weight that was suddenly lifted from his soul. He stood up and looked at the door. He clutched the brass knob in his hands, gave a little push. The door opened.
Through it he saw the incarnation of his wildest fantasies. He gazed at gigantic, glowing stars and flaming, twinkling galaxies. There were sails and comets that stretched and soared into an infinite sky, colours which took flight and the music of the universe ringing in his ears. It was at that moment that he realised the best, most special doors did not need keys. That they could be opened only by and with himself, his own belief, his own needs and goals. That journeys and destinations could be disparate, but united even with the flimsiest string. Behind him, the sea foamed and the wind roared.
The boy stepped through that door. He was never seen again.
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