There is this place, a room, with no light. Four walls, a ceiling, perhaps a wooden chair in the corner, but no windows and only one small door.
This door is ornate. It has dark wood with vines and flowers carved along the frame but the panel changes. At times filled with carved exotic birds flying free, others it has forged steel sculptures wrapping it like a present, and still other times painted in celestial colors that only a dreaming eye can envision.
The handle changes as well as its placement. Sometimes it is a giant diamond knob in the center at others it is a gentle curved feather made from brass. The door and its handle are never the same twice and when opened it fills the room with light, images, sounds, smells and voices. They rush forth into the dark room, filling the silence and darkness instantly.
I am Indigo Spider and it is in this room that I sit in darkness and sometimes find a magenta moth fluttering against the door. When the moth appears, I open the door and, when I’m lucky, catch a snippet among the chaos. Which is then posted at night anonymously. I say anonymously because I have been called many things in my life and, for now, Indigo Spider is closest to who I am although nothing like “me” in real life.
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