[the Writing of Kuypers] [JanetKuypers.com] [Bio] [Poems] [Prose]
The doorbell rang. “Who could be stopping by at this hour?”, I thought, but I put my magazine down and walked to the door. A man in a plaid suit stood in the hallway with a worn briefcase in his hand. He flashed me a tired, business-like smile. It almost seemed genuine.
As he rambled on and on about... Well, I don’t really know what he said. I don’t even know what he wanted. “What is he selling?”, I thought, and my head became dizzy with his confusing words. It all seemed like nonsense. But it all seemed to make sense.
I didn’t like what I heard. But I tried to listen. I wanted to listen. I had to hold on to the door frame: I had to keep myself steady while this man’s thoughts tried to knock me down.
I finally stopped him. “What are you trying to sell me? What are you trying to do?”, I asked. The man looked at me and said, “I’m trying to sell you an ideology. I am trying to poison your mind.”
I slammed the door in his face. Alone, I let go of the door frame. I fell down.