Writer’s block is a troubling phenomenon. I needed some hindsight & inspiration. It was reason enough to walk down the circular stairs and open the gateway.
Hesitant, I slowly lifted my arms and pulled the lever. Blinking and bouncing the lights shine life on a forgotten darkened space. They continue to flicker as the old grates in the door slowly begin to roll upwards. It sounds like an incessant tapping. In an instant the sound takes me back. Call it a pleasant distant memory or a disheartening nostalgia. The door comes to a halt the lights still tripping. Everything remains still. Motionless as it was when I was last here. Rotting yellow letters lie spread across the floor. I look above and the windows are cracked and shattered. There’s a faint stream of light coming through. The light fleetingly shines through the darkened ends of the room. They reveal shards of something that once resembled something else. In front of me there’s a façade of a dark patch. It was my father’s old toy covered in silver sheets and laced in dust. It hasn’t been touched in a while. it’s just as the man left it. Muddy and broken.
Flip
