I also meet myself in front of the door. I remember certain feelings that I felt inside when I arrived. There is a spyhole in the door, and sometimes I wonder if there is an eye behind, watching me and scrutinizing whether this man who wants to get in constantly is really ready to get permission. But again, I find myself helplessly in front of the door, like someone who stares at a timetable knowing that there should have been two trams during the time he waited. I hope desperately, and unexpectedly, I am waiting again, but not endlessly.
Disappointment turns into rage.
Of course, I'm free at any time to return and obtain access violently with a crowbar, an auger, or a heavy chest used as a ram, but it's not what I want. I would destroy the door. I don't think that someone's waiting for me inside. P erhaps is literary, but it gives a rest of hope to one. Perhaps I should spend more time at the door, day after day watching for something to happen, night after night, if somebody goes or comes.