Doors

I taste the last few words like sweet cane juice as I drop my paperback past on the floor of the van. As I walk about the dormitories I become sick with fury for being pulled away from my one and only love.
(There are more worlds than these) 
I seat myself back in the car and reach for the seatbelt. It denies my yank by locking about halfway out of its plastic slide. I yank vigorously thrice more then curse the seatbelt and all its wicked intentions. My mother attempts to sooth me with her voice but instead soothes the seatbelt on my next violent pull. I grumble as I reach far beneath the seat for the last few pages. I find it has slipped out behind the seat. Now I'm over here, now I'm over here, you'll never catch me!! Heehee!! It was just plain mocking me now. I reach over backwards to find it has not run away as I expected it might have. I am again refreshed by the words and slump comfortably into the seat. My parents words have turned to gentle whispers and the world slows.
(Time is a face on the water) 
The van pulls to a stop and again a fire lights in my belly. I look up to ask where we are and my father, bless him, explains we now must take the crap out of the car and move it to the apartment. The fire explodes in my gut and I'm prepared to spew it about until the world was crispy, black, and willing to wait for a single moment while I lapped up the final bit of literary ecstasy. After more moving and The Christian's kind welcome, I replace my fire with peaceful patience and resolve. I figure that I'll have time enough to finish the book whenever I need to. In the final moments of the book I flip mischievously to the last page. In the millisecond it takes to flip to and away from that page I see just enough to know how the story is to end. I remember the warning given and realize what a sick trap he has laid.
(Commala come come, the story's almost done.) 
I shiver with a mixture of delight, hope, and disgust. My mouth tastes of iron and every breath I take is loud and full. I look from the small window in the car and figure that if the world truly is real, doesn't that mean someone dreamt it first? I realize that my phone isn't in it's regular position slapping gently against my left thigh. I figure when I last saw it and reach beneath my chair. I pull from it the book I finished but moments ago and look longingly at it. I flip to the end hoping that more pages have grown from the back and that the story would continue to grow as long as I wished it to. It had not and I place it away to find what I originally went searching for. Beneath where the literature lay previous, I found my slippery phone lodged between one of the bars holding the chairs to the floor, and the floor.
(Say Thankya')  
I sigh with relief and return to my previous train of thought. I look at the trees and the grass and the street with yellow and grey and try to decide which Patrick, or Daniel had drawn such a world with such a precise hand. Who authored my existence and who illustrated its words? Who brought me such sounds like music, and beverages like coke? 
(I DRINK NOZZ-A-LA!)
And perhaps if I were to wake to a world that was the same but different, would I notice that my mother's name had strategically replaced its "i" with an "l", or that my room had turned from navy blue to aquamarine, or that my friends now used ever so slightly different jargon?
(Yar!)
Would I still be OK,
(Hinky di-di)
 or would I find that my world had been crushed the night previous and, from the ashes, been reborn and flourished again?
(Ka is a wheel)
Then learn of how it has happened every night previous since I was first conceived? 
 (Baby bunting, baby dear, baby bring your berries here!)
But the memory of said discovery is already fading like the dream that housed it and I fall back to routine. 
(Mayhap this time it'll be different)
This time I'll hear the gentle whisper and look about my new world at the slightly smaller desks and the slightly balder man swinging a slightly shorter stick at the slightly curvier handwriting which draws a slightly louder bought of laughter in my slightly more generous classmates whom I find slightly more attractive while my slightly less jagged nails itch my slightly more protrudent nose. Would I notice the new and ever changing universe I find myself in, or would I drag on like I have in the past for who knows how long? I may have done this an endless amount of times previously but I was missing a vital piece. Now I have that piece and can bring my story to it's own end.
No longer am I ruled by fate (beams)
Or false idols. (Crimson King)
I won't wait for rapture (Gawd-bombs)
or chaos (todash)
I search my world for answers but find that I'm the answer. The only author is me and the illustrator is I. I can sketch and paint beautifully no matter which me I am and my literature shakes the foundations of the Earth. So long as I am, the world around me is too. The King had his turn to rule his world, but now it's my world, and the worlds around it are mine too. My name means usurper and I intend to live up to that name. These worlds that lay in front of me will be properly conquered and ruled by me until I enter the next one in turn to rule again. My key is the pencil that I find pointed at me. I now point it back at the world that wishes to challenge my power. Touche! En Garde! Mit Shlag! I'll fight this world until I falls, and falls again. I captain more than my soul may it please ya'!

The books that gave my Jr. High life a constant pleasure will now help shape my life, because now I have the power to let it be shaped. 

Dark Tower 1-7 
(Summer 2009-April 22, 2012)  
Long days and pleasant nights.