Old gates have always fascinated me. The aged, well worn, rusted and broken. The mended, patched and tied up with twine.
The gate, a barrier to keep things in and keep others out.
The gates of the mind. That hard metal gate clanging shut and stopping you in your tracks. For years it stands, shiny, clinical and unyielding. An inanimate object that will never move.
But slowly, slowly that gate has been rotting. Rust eating at its very soul. It has been falling apart on itself. It is not the insurmountable barrier that was in your head and heart.
It is patched and worn and held up with string. Where is the solidity, the strength against which you had no effect? The gate is disappearing and merging into time itself. Soon it will have fallen to the ground, no string or wire will be able to hold it in place anymore, and grass grow through the mangled spars. Nature herself will calmly distroy that which never should have been.
Strange feeling when an old gate crumbles and falls before your eyes. You realise that freedom is yours at last, for it cannot keep you prisoner any more.
Step carefully over the broken pieces, look up, not down at the tangle in the grass.
Freedom awaits, big, scary and a whole lot of fun.