Korridorium

♫ Tous les trente-six du mois ♫

104/398

I enter the corridor. And please, don’t think for a moment that it’s easy for me. Every damn time, it’s a struggle, an ordeal, another case of having to push past my own limits. Not knowing what to expect. The agony of choice when doors branch off to the sides—closed but not locked, unlabeled, and without a single hint as to where they lead. The sheer inner tension, knowing it could be a trap, or that new, unwritten laws might apply—laws that could bring me death or worse, if I unknowingly break them. The certainty that this won’t be the last corridor and, no, it will probably never get any easier to enter them. On the contrary. It gets harder every time.

I’m not cut out for corridors. Let me enter the rainforest, send me to terraced rice fields, or ship me off to the desert for all I care! But corridors? Always these—how many now? Over a hundred?—nerve-wracking passageways, hallways, endless suites of rooms?!

Well, fine. It must be done. I enter the corridor.