They say everyone will eventually go through it.
Some walk, some run. Some arrive out of breath-desperately searching for something they cannot name.
It is always there.
The azure kissed door tucked beneath a cascade of lush, sun-washed blossom lilacs.
People come here for different reasons.
A personal reason.
For love.
For heartbreak.
For healing.
For a quiet hope to remember a trusted emotion and touch a fading memory.
Running barefoot through the violet lit field of grass, I reach the door entrance for what feels like the hundredth time.
The aquamarine hue of its exterior reminds me of peace, complimented beautifully by the surrounding heliotrope blossoms of first love and innocence.
Laughter. Tranquility. Reminiscence. Memory.
Why so many knock at this door remains a mystery. But it is said that when opened, the mind experiences quiet clarity and peace enveloped by emotions inexplicable by words. Nostalgia.
By now, this door feels like a second home.
Welcoming me for the hundredth time, I eagerly await the feelings of bittersweet melancholy that I know will soon precede.
Nostalgia.
This door has seen me walk, run, and sprint through its threshold, rekindling emotions that remain unseen by anyone else.
I have walked through this door for a chance to remember a time where I felt truly untouchable. Proud.
I have run through this door for a chance to bring him back to me, to cling to the version of intimacy that once made me feel chosen. Loved.
I have sprinted through this door for a chance to never forget the one thing I am most afraid of losing. Myself.
My pull to this door only expands as I grow older, experience gathers, and feelings accumulate. I find myself running desperately to its entrance for comfort whenever the cruel fear of forgetting comes too close.
The entrance never fails to steady me.
It isn’t the blue honey frame that holds my memories together.
But the very threshold itself- the very place where nostalgia gathers and reminds me of who I am.
Quite a profound idea: the threshold as a place of memory. A threshold is usually something people ignore or step over quickly, precisely because lingering in liminality feels uncomfortable. Yet that in‑between space—neither inside nor outside—often holds the most charged memories. It’s where transitions happen, where identities shift, where we hesitate before crossing.
I love the idea that certain places help us remember who we are, even as time keeps moving forward. Thank you, Catarina!