Sometimes I stumble upon doors,
doors in my own mind,
I would have a map but it's hard to know where you're going when you don't know where you are and you don't have anything to base it off of, no landmarks or soil to draw an x in.

A dark room, a single light in what I imagine to be the center,
not nearly enough to illuminate the entirety of this world around me,
a dark room that branches off into hallways,
long corridors with chipped paint and cracked cement floor, every tile cracked the same, every paint chip repeating, it's own flake on the floor.

The light fades after few turns and then disappears all at once,
and then I'm alone,
alone with the quiet hum of darkness,
the haunting sharp cold like that of a winter breeze made colder by the solitude of this abyss.

Sometimes I stumble upon doors.

Empty soft echos of a childs lost footsteps,
leaving behind no trail because even the soil had nothing else to care for in this abyss, doors never leading out only further inside.
doors and doors, and rooms and rooms,

Sometimes I stumble upon doors.

And these doors lead me to believe,
maybe there is no exit,
no way out,

Sometimes I stumble upon doors,
and how I wish one would let me out.