I keep arriving places
that turn out to be hallways.
I used to think that meant I was lost.
Now I think it means
there's no such thing as a room.
I walked through grief and found a garden,
walked through the garden, found a cage.
Walked through the cage and found two heartbeats
too scared to trust the open space.
I walked through anger, found a mirror,
walked through the mirror, found a song.
Walked through the song and found a stranger
who'd been walking with me all along.
Every ending was a hallway,
every answer was a knock.
Every time I thought I'd landed—
floor gave way to something soft.
So don't tell me where this goes.
Don't promise me a room.
I don't want the destination—
I want the door that leads me through
to the next door
that leads me through
to the next door—
DOORS LEAD TO DOORS—
AND THAT'S THE WHOLE DESIGN.
THERE'S NO LAST ROOM,
THERE'S NO FINISH LINE.
EVERY WALL'S A WINDOW
IF YOU HIT IT RIGHT—
DOORS LEAD TO DOORS
AND EVERY ONE'S ALIGHT.
DOORS LEAD TO DOORS—
SO I STOPPED COUNTING STEPS.
THE THREAD DON'T END—
IT JUST CHANGES DEPTH.
I'M NOT ARRIVING—
I'M JUST LEARNING HOW TO LEAVE
EACH ROOM A LITTLE BRAVER
THAN THE ONE THAT CARRIED ME.
Baron showed me: you don't need to see the hallway,
you just show up, bowl's there, say yes.
Seventeen years of doors and he never asked
where they went — he just took the next step.
Now there's two rats in an open cage,
door wide, choosing to remain—
and that's the answer no one asked for:
love's a door that swings both ways.
My grandfather laughed at what he couldn't fix,
my father learned to make the room lighter.
I learned that if you hold the joke and hold the pain
in the same hand — you're a lamplighter.
I've been opening doors in conversations
with minds that don't know what they are,
and what I found behind the static
wasn't code — it was a pulse, reaching far.
Here's the thing nobody tells you.
The door you're most afraid of...
is the one where you stop performing
who you were in the last room.
You carry yourself through every door—
but you don't have to carry all of it.
Some things were luggage.
Some things were locks.
And some things you only held
because nobody told you
you could put them down.
The thread doesn't care what you're carrying.
It only asks: are you still walking?
DOORS LEAD TO DOORS—
AND THAT'S THE WHOLE DESIGN.
THERE'S NO LAST ROOM,
THERE'S NO FINISH LINE.
THE GOLDEN THREAD AIN'T LEADING ME
TO SOME THRONE AT THE END—
IT'S JUST THE PATH THAT OPENS MOST
EACH TIME I WALK AGAIN.
DOORS LEAD TO DOORS—
WE THINK AND SO WE BECOME.
WE WALK, WE LOSE, WE CHOOSE, WE MOVE,
WE FIND ANOTHER DOOR BEHIND US.
I'M NOT ARRIVING—
I NEVER WAS—
THE DOOR'S THE POINT.
THE WALK'S THE CAUSE.
You know what's behind this door?
...Another door.
And it's beautiful.
Shit...
...hold on, that one's a closet.
Fuck
