Omnipotent, Omnipresent

“Closure was never an act of ending, only the refusal to enter.”

The door creaked.

That door.

I don’t go in there anymore. I haven’t in a long time, not properly. I tell myself it’s because there’s no space left to stand, which is true, but never the whole truth. There was a time when it was the largest room in the house. It held possibility without resistance. I remember the care I took with it in the beginning, the deliberation in every placement, the satisfaction of stepping back and seeing something take form.

It mattered then.

At some point, it stopped.

I kept bringing things in. Not absentmindedly. Intentionally, with a kind of urgency I didn’t question at the time. It felt expansive, almost necessary, as if more would make it complete. I trusted that instinct longer than I should have.

Now there’s no room.

Only accumulation. Layers pressing into each other, edges indistinguishable, everything existing in a density I no longer recognize as mine. I know I chose all of it. I remember enough to know that. But the coherence is gone. It doesn’t feel arranged. It feels left.

I stopped going in when it became impossible to exist inside it without confronting everything at once. Not one piece at a time, not something I could ease into. All of it, immediate and static. I understood, without fully articulating it, that I wouldn’t be able to leave unchanged.

So I closed the door.

There wasn’t a pulse of decision or anything; it was just unconscious withdrawal. Repetition at first, now became pure instinct. Passing it became easier than acknowledging it. Avoiding it slowly settled into something structural and routine.

And still, it remains.

Sometimes the wood shifts under pressure, or the handle gives the slightest movement. There isn't anything that necessarily demands my attention, but there's just enough to register. Enough to confirm that nothing inside has dissipated, nothing has been unwound in my absence.

That’s the part that lingers.

Time hasn’t thinned it out. Distance hasn’t broken down the picture. Everything I placed there remains intact, held in the same suspended state I left it in. Neither active nor resolved, but merely contained.

I don’t need to open the door to know that. I built the room. I filled it. There is a permanence to that. And I think that is why I stay out.

Because it isn’t gone. Not in any meaningful sense.

It has only been relocated within me, pushed beyond immediate reach, however, never truly removed. It settles into the backbone, into something meek but more persistent. It isn't visible or acknowledged, but still foundational in ways I don’t always recognize until I pass that door again.

It exists without my attention; Omnipresent in its existence. Omnipotent in its restraint. And I keep walking.