Knocking

I can feel the knocking, pounding away and echoing throughout my entire body, echoing throughout my brain. But I can't seem to find the door. I want to open, I want to let it in and make the banging cease, but when I'm surrounded by walls that have no openings, how can I succeed?
What is truth? Tell me that I might inscribe it all around me—big letters, bold colors, words that I can hang onto. Find a crack, mind the gaps, make a way to enter. Or is it exit? Do I need to let something in or just get out to whatever's waiting on the other side?

Knocking, knocking, knocking...but then suddenly I see I'm the one who's knocking. I'm the one awaiting admittance. Admittance from a world I created too securely, a world that hides me from the world. What am I afraid they will see? What am I afraid they won't see? I am me. They are not even them. They are him and her, he and she, tall and short, blue and brown, green and hazel, dark and light—they are not them. The mass thins, individuals appear, all knocking, knocking, knocking...wanting to be free. I have found my door, I will help set them free.