Blame it on the closet.

Feeling like a lazy slop I mustered my strength this afternoon and got out of bed. 

The morning had been glorious; full of dreams with epic narrative and adventure and peaceful, cool fall sunshine 

(reflected off the window across the alley).

Breakfast was toast and coffee. Then back to bed.

Nuked chicken pot pie leftovers for lunch with two root beers. The sudden sugar and calories rush got me up and dancing to a post-work playlist I made last spring titled MGMT. Shuffle. The most depressing songs came on first. 

(Is all of this playlist so melloncholy?)

Now playing: My Body is a Cage by Arcade Fire.

The song was wrong. All wrong. No song could have been worse at that moment. With the aid of those melodic tones and suspenseful beats the darkened bedroom doors began to look like decaying gaping maws, yearning for me, their stench making it tough to breathe, toxic hands reaching out to pull me in. 

I pulled the doors closed.

(Don't approach it!)

(...not all the way closed...let some air in)

The first door pulled closed easier and had nothing obscuring it. 

My doorway had the stereo cord running through it. I couldn't unplug it. I'd lose my morose music. 

My room was dark. I had turned off the lights and gotten dressed before turning on the music. As I pulled the door closed I saw part of my room faintly illuminated in what must have been the florescent glow the closet makes when you open the left hand side of the closet's double-doors.

(I didn't leave that open.)

The door closed

(most of the way).

I tried to dance. Tried to exercise. 

(I must have left it open.) 

Song change. Five more song changes. 

Nor playing: Golden Years by David Bowie.

Much more relaxing. 

(That door is still open.)

With the brightest lights in my apartment on I tried to dance. Five songs later I couldn't take it anymore. I had to tell somebody about that door. First step to closing it is ackgnolegding that there is nothing scary going on here

(it's just your stupid negligence. There are no Ghosts here).

I start to type and instinctively glance over at the door to my bed room. As I'm looking at it a breeze runs through it and the door gapes open slightly, welcoming me back. Weakly I close the computer, walk over to the room, and turn off the music. 

(Nothing is there.)

The other door slams shut.

(wind)

I push my door open.

(There is nothing there.)

I turn on the big light.

(See? I told you.)

My room is exactly as I left it. I looked toward the light coming from my closet, to my right

(wasting electricity). 

 I walked over and closed both doors at once. A gust of wind rushed past me from 

(somewhere)

inside the closet as the doors shut with a click.

(They could just as easily click open again.)

(No they can't.)

I have homework to do. I'm supposed to be writing a business plan for my possible future goat dairy. I can't be obsessing over a closet that isn't haunted.

(then why the fear?)

It isn't haunted. That's a stereotype. It doesn't matter that every time I see it ajar a chill runs down my spine. I'm sure the reason I advert my gaze every time I close it is that I'm a coward. That must be it. There's no way my closet is inhabited with evil

(sucking my lifeforce).

There's just no way.