The door stood ajar, old, framed by ancient ivy and medieval stones, as if it were waiting for a visitor, but not so inviting, perhaps even warning the daring intruder…
Immobile, silent, I waited, for a sound, a sign, maybe even a voice: but there was no sound, even the slow, hesitant, waves at my feet appeared to be muted.
Slowly, approaching the door, a thought: is this water alive, watching, listening, and waiting too? Waiting for something to emerge from the darkness within? Waiting for some creature from the deep, from times long forgotten, to throw a tentacle, searching, sensing, hunting for human life?
Did I come here in search for a lost truth, for a lost identity? Were there so few survivors, and did I come here to surrender, to accept defeat, and to die?
Image: Jerry N. Uelsmann, untitled, 1969, at http://www.all-art.org/art_20th_century/uelsmann1.html, via Angela Goff