Reflections

A threshold, its once bright smooth gloss dulled, opening into a dark room with only one darker exit.  Inside the air is close and smells of decay. In the dark the obstacles, of which there may be many, are daunting, the traverse bruising and painful. The room may be vast or small, expansive or narrow, it's impossible to tell from this vantage point. There may be light in there or not. There may be a stove and wood or it may be cold, damp, unwelcoming. It is most certainly well lived in and will require constant attention, the walls crumbling, the floors worn, the furnishings threadbare and dilapidating, the fixtures gradually dysfunctional. One item after the other breaks down, to be retired and put aside, limiting its usefulness. There may be compensations, other comforts. Voices echo in the void, but sound disipates. Once clear windows are obscured. The deeper one goes the more suffocating it becomes. Like a house of horrors. Like a hall of mirrors, reflections multiply until The End.