When is something not some ‘thing’, but ‘something else’ entirely…?[1]



Can a doorway truly be housed; a threshold entirely contained within four walls or nestled securely beneath a peaked roof?

Can location be defined by property lines and degrees of longitude and latitude; can it even rest within the four cardinal points of north, south east and west?

Better yet, what delineates a true doorway[2]?  For that matter, how can one truly define a threshold or a portal?  Can it be as simple as naming a gateway or entryway, a certain way to gain entrance into that which has been shut out or locked away, or in answering an invitation to approach, whether that invitation be welcoming or denying?[3]

Personally I prefer the term gateway, as in drug… an addictive substance that on the surface may appear to be relatively harmless but through continued use, and over an extended period of time, may lead an unsuspecting victim to experiment with much more harmful substances or instances.

There was a time when I thought the entire world had turned against me.  As I later found out, this was, for the most part anyway, not entirely untrue.  Then again, it is not so much that the world as an entirety hates me; it is the fact that there are certain elements in that world, and outside that world, some dark, others not quite as dark, that hates me instead.

I’m thinking nekronator’s.

Now, you may now be thinking, ‘What an odd way to grow up?’  You may also be thinking, ‘What is a nekronator[4]?’  And I for one would have to agree.  However, as many of us discover during our ‘adult’ years, childhood can be a time of great discovery, of universal truths as well as worlds of absolute and complete false beliefs.

Personally, I hated my childhood.  (In the same breath however, the only thing I possibly hated more than my childhood would had to have been my self[5].)  As of this writing there is ample proof that this self-loathing behavior I project and continually exhibit, is a learned condition, far more so than a by-product of my environmental or parental upbringing.

I simply learned to hate far more easily then I grew to love.  Why, I have no clue.

It could have been the thought that maybe I was never good enough.  It could also have been the fact that since my birth there have been forces acting on my life to keep me exactly where I am, as in here, within these pages, these sheaves, free to be turned, free to move forward and backward, but never free to be me, seemingly bound on the leading edge by a force greater then the individual, made only more so by the sum of the whole.

The thing is pretty much efing[6] meta-physical if you ask me.  And to think how it all began with but a thought, a discovery, a means to an end, a way of conveying my thoughts, of putting pen to paper, fingertips to keyboard, so that, from time to time, I could have an outlet to blow off a little steam, chronicle a journey, take a little ‘road trip.’


Journaling- never once did I even consider the most remote possibility that someone would take the time and effort to read what I have written, which explains the hyper-visual descriptive in most places so far.  (Pretty much the ‘why and how’ of an illuminator[7].)  When the art of defining how I feel and what I have witnessed is best conveyed by the fact that I can over indulge myself in the richness and feel of the written word.

Throughout this narrative I have tried to include a variety of footnotes, photographs, drawings and sources in an effort to better explain or describe the experiences that I suffered or passed through, been subjected to- pretty much a living hell that I have been dreading to face from day one, page one… and yet, shall forever tread, that which lies within these pages, bound by these words, beyond even my pitiful attempts to examine or even explain them.

In other words how it all began, with a house and a family, an all ‘American’ family to be exact.  Not the new age blend or compilation, but an original atomic sort of family, with a Mom, a Dad, brother(s) and a sister plus a tree with more branches than El Árbol del Tulea in Oaxaca.  All we really lacked to be complete was the familiar family pet, the all too intrusive mutt or puss.

Does it count that we would acquire one later, a pet, or by being brought into the family later, do we discount its acquisition at all?  No matter, to all inward and outward ‘appearances’ we were anything but the atypical “All American” family, and I would have to agree.

In the end, I guess, simply put… we just ‘were.’

[1] Such as the story of me.

[2] A doorway is a page created with the purpose of sending visitors to an entirely different doorway or page. These pages are also known as bridge pages, portal pages, jump pages, gateway pages, and entry pages.   These very same doorways and pages have also been known to redirect visitors, without their knowledge, by using some form of cloaking or miss-direction, even clues.

[3] By definition, a door is considered a moveable barrier used to cover an opening or entryway.  Doors are used widely and are found in walls or between partitions of a building or space and as a rule can be open, granting access, or closed, (more or less securely) by using a combination of latches and locks.

Doors are nearly universal in buildings of all types, allowing passage between the inside and the Outside, between internal rooms and external locations.  In these situations doors are also used to control the physical atmosphere within a clearly defined or undefined space by enclosing it, excluding it, constraining certain physical attributes and so on.

[4] The first I will answer, the second you will have to wait for.

[5] Myself and other -self forms are also used, alone or with other nouns or pronouns, in constructions after as, than, or but in all varieties of speech and writing.
There is ample precedent, going as far back as Chaucer and running through the whole range of British and American literature and other serious formal writing, for all these uses. Many usage guides, however, state that to use myself in any construction in which I or me could be used instead is characteristic only of informal speech and that such use ought not to occur in writing.  myself. Unabridged (v 1.1). Random House, Inc. (accessed: April 22, 2009).

[6] Need I say more?

[7] Illuminator- one who traffics in the craeft.  1475-85; < Late Latin illūminātor, equivalent to illūminā(re) (see illumine) + -tor -tor

Author: S.M.Muse

Bestselling author S.M Muse writes, fun, action-packed adventures full of everyday magic, and darker than Mid-night foes. His characters are clever, fearless, and resilient, but in real life, S.M. is afraid of spiders, things that go bump in the night, and roughing it in the great outdoors. Let’s face it. S.M. wouldn’t last ten minutes in one of his books. S.M Muse is best known for his Heir of Nostalgia fantasy series, and soon to be Urban Contemporary thriller, The Summer People. Visit him at

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