Yes.  No.  Yes.  No.  It is the constant bantering of my life.  “The door is ajar.  The door is ajar.”  No it’s not you stupid contraption.  I am stuck, can’t you see that?  I am desperately trying to get out of my life and the handle is broken.  “The door is ajar.”  Break the stupid thing open.  Tear the door down.  As hard as I kick I only break my foot.  I only loose the feeling in my foot as I kick with all my force and that door will not budge.  “Let me in,” I cry helplessly.  “Why won’t you let me in?”

She is right.  She is wrong.  She may be right.  No, she is definitely right.  But I am wrong.  It will never end.  I will never marry.  I will be alone for the rest of my life.  No one is right.  When someone is right, I am wrong.  I am completely wrong.
 
She is so beautiful.  I am so alone.

Stay away from me.  I won’t let you in.  I will sit here in silence and not say a word.  How does that feel?  Feel, how can I talk about feelings?  I do not feel?  Life is a circle, a cycle.  It is a graph that looks like the stock market, and sometimes it has to crash.  For some it crashes more often than others.  I had this wild ride.  Let me off.  “The door is ajar.”  It is not open.  That is what I have been telling you.  I am kicking, and screaming, and cursing, but I cannot get out.  The plane has gone down and trapped me inside the burning wreckage.

Write, you say.  Write.  What kind of stupid solution is that?  How many writers blew their brains out or went crazy in isolation?  Write, you say.  Write from the heart.  Write what from the heart?  Write about the roller coaster of my life in which I wake up one day ready to seize the world and go to bed that same night wanting to break the window pane that allows me to look out on the world and jam a shard of that glass so deep into my wrist that I will never have to ride this stupid coaster again.  Write you say.  Physician, I say, heal yourself.

“The door is ajar.”  I am going to be a master teacher, so I am told.  Sometimes I even believe it.  I hate planning.  I hate having to prepare.  I hate deadlines and due dates, and doing things because I have to, not because I want to.  I hate lesson plans that go nowhere and professors who have all the answers to questions nobody asked.  We don’t care.  You don’t get it.  We don’t come to class because you are boring, and useless.  So you require our attendance.  It is a part of our grade.  You bribe us to come listen to you spew your ridiculous garbage for an hour three times a week.  What do we learn?  That you shouldn’t be a teacher, and that we know more than you.

“The door is ajar.”  I am going nowhere.  Stuck.  Life keeps going.  I have accomplished a great deal, but I am going nowhere.  I am trapped in solitude.  Who are my friends?  I don’t have any.