The Blue Door
I don’t know how far I
walked.
All I remember was moving through a soft mist of blue.
It wasn’t cold —
it felt like being wrapped in a blanket from childhood,
one that smelled like safety,
like home.
The blue light grew
stronger,
like a silent invitation from far away.
And then, I saw it.
A door.
No handle.
Just floating there in space,
its frame shimmering with liquid light,
rippling like water that breathed.
I didn’t know what was
behind it.
But my heart was racing —
not from fear,
but from something deeper.
That feeling when you’re about to arrive somewhere
you’ve never been
but always belonged.
Just as I reached out,
a voice whispered —
not from outside,
but from a deep, ancient part within:
“Are you ready?
This time, there’s no turning back.”
I paused.
Took a breath.
And nodded.
The door opened.
Inside was a blue
deeper than any ocean,
deeper than space.
In that blue,
I saw eyes —
not watching,
but welcoming.
Symbols of light
floated through the air,
a language I’d never learned
but somehow remembered.
My feet moved on their
own,
and the blue enveloped me.
In that moment,
I knew I had entered
a new layer of memory.
One that belongs
only to the soul.
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