Harry Houdini once fought a locked door for two hours in a Scottish jail cell, sweating, straining, reaching for every trick that had never failed him. When he finally collapsed against it, the door swung open. It had never been locked.
The offense you keep straining against, the bitterness, the name someone called you on your worst day: that cell has no lock on it. It never did.
I stop straining against a door that was never locked. I lean forward, and I walk out free.
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