Beyond the red door, a surreal world awaited—a realm of a distant past and forgotten dreams. Millions of recollections stared back with a conspicuous and eerie silence. Hanging loosely in the air were gales of laughter from closely-stacked photos, analogue voices from cassette tapes, classical music from the vintage stereo gear and cold gusts of wind from the frosted-glass window.
The room with the red door was low-lit, drab and dusty. The rich tapestry forbade the gleeful rays to penetrate the half-opened frosted window. But they managed to escape from the cracked wooden frame. The vintage wallpapers ostensibly depicted a tinge of dark colours and echoed an indistinct chatter from the days that no longer existed. What happened to the last film in the polaroid camera that dangled loosely from the crooked, rusted nail? Is it still encapsulated in the dark film chamber? What memories did it last capture?
The mahogany table was laden with a pile of dusted photo albums. These albums locked and stored a thousand memories. They silently implored to be opened and solicited to release a deluge of recollections. They swelled and grunted with the weight of the reminiscence: the weight of beautiful bygone moments. An illegible scribble at the back of a faded postcard: a stained lipstick on the cracked mirror was another story to another time.
The room with the red door manifests secrets from a time long gone. It’s a requiem for an innocence that slithers and weaves through the foregone days. It ‘s a twisted haven, a privy place that only opens its door to surreptitious visits. Clandestine visits. The kind of visit that no one talks about. Or is forbidden to talk about.