We’re not the madwomen in the attic – they get lots of play, one way or another. We’re the quiet woman at the end of the third-floor hallway, whose trash is always tidy, who smiles brightly in the stairwell with a cheerful greeting, and who, from behind closed doors, never makes a sound. In our lives of quiet desperation … not a soul registers that we are furious.”
Author: Claire Messud The Woman Upstairs
And behind the closed doors lie the truth.A culture of pragmatistic and antagonistic world where our lives could either be transformed into a small world or become the arrays of clouds and dreams which often is fulfilled by the euphemeric dreams of nothing.A ambiguous and dreadful nothing killed by the untold truth.Behind the closed doors lies our neverland or the dreamland .A story which is untold by our suicidal voice ,a voice which is often corrupted into the transformed world of the new beginnings.Nevertheless hidden away behind closed doors of vulnerability,concealed under the ultra-respectable masks of silence and the drapped veil which cover the naked soul.A suicide ,the tacit killer of “had enough” of this bullshit and so forth.Dreams ,ambitions and goals becomes a depressive static state where the world is shattered by whisper,mutter and cough.The words ,sentences could not squeeze enough and they are the acid killer ,they stopped talking even when when the words tried to reveal the cruel sentences.
Women,hey! An anthem of craziness,undecisson,uncertainty all described by the above.An alcove of burning candle until nothing left behind.Behind closed door lies anger,depression and scream.An unsettling desire to go back and forth to where the story began.Although screamingly the world is shattered ,behind closed door is comfort.And as Alice Munro quotes:”You go inside and stay there for a while, wandering back and forth and settling where you like and discovering how the room and corridors relate to each other, how the world outside is altered by being viewed from these windows. And you, the visitor, the reader, are altered as well by being in this enclosed space, whether it is ample and easy or full of crooked turns, or sparsely or opulently furnished. You can go back again and again, and the house, the story, always contains more than you saw the last time. It also has a sturdy sense of itself of being built out of its own necessity, not just to shelter or beguile you.”
Behind closed door we develop stories,we make love to our bodies and we feed the broken soul.Behind closed door we create a better world for our future generation.We have to admit to ourselves that there is something more than a closed door and we tend to understand ourselves better when we are in desperate needs .In our desperation we create…We push everything to the top,go down the pipes,adjust our valves.We timber and we repair aesthetically everything what is partially broken and nothing is left at the comfort zone.We think,therefore we act.We think,therefore we do.We emerge from the functionality of routines and go to the unexpected.We explore the red zone until the x files are just paper notes left on our desk untouched by our genius.We become rich in the furious element and we scream out loud of the comfort zone.We stop of creating cluster and we eliberate by the cage who lies behind closed door.We are a generation of doers and I am proud that I don’t suffer from the syndrome of closed door.My world is as open as clouds on the sky.I merge into a new journey and could not wait to step outside..Outside the door life is brighter…A new whole of understanding it opens its sophisticated way..