Free to Write

It happens every morning at six o'clock sharp, the exact moment the clock tower sounds, while most people in town are snug at home eating their breakfasts and arguing about who should pass the salt, the portal opens. It's not a very big one, although every time it opens, it grows. It started as a pinprick in the fabric of the universe, a bolt of pure joy piercing through from the other side. The memory of it spreads wide and long, bleeding through like a scab that has been picked so often that it will never heal.

Soon, the portal will be big enough. I watch it, waiting for the day when it's big enough for me.