Picture a Russian doll with tens of smaller dolls each one inside the other. Now picture an elevator going exactly through the middle top to bottom. This is how I picture my inner self.
The exterior is there for anyone to see, but inside, the elevator doors open only on some floors for some people. The walls on the dolls are made of wood, some thicker than others. You have to enter the floor and walk around to see what is in each one.
There is someone with access to my most intimate secrets, yet they don’t know what I like to read about. There is another that knows when I am sick or longing, but ignores what makes me laugh.
I sometimes get lost in the inner floors and can’t find my way back up. Sometimes I keep making outer doll nicer and then can’t figure out how to crawl back inside.
I have dreams of elevators that go sideways, I wonder if my dolls would look the same this way. Why would this even matter?
If I ever loose my mind, which floor would be keeping it?
Some floors I have never entered and in others the elevator just doesn’t stop.
The smaller doll is empty, I long to go there but fear staying too long.
The Dulus Nest 