As she walked up the sidewalk heading to the outside door of her apartment building, holding her glass water bottle and feeling mentally exhausted, she had a thought.
It wasn't a word or a phrase, but an action.
She imagined (and all of it happened in slow motion, in an atempt of prolonging the pleasure real life, conditioned by the expectators all around, could never give her)
picking the bottle by the top of it, with her right hand, raising it above her head and, swiftly smashing it on the building's front wall.
Her eyes were open and turned to the wrong side, they were sparkling with satisfaction as she imagined all the little pieces of glass flying, being hit by a late afternoon sun light.
As her mind built the event, she was being showered with beautiful broken pieces of her soul that were finaly freed and showen the love a day sky can give.
These pieces were sharp but couldn't hurt her.
In her teenage years, she had imagined something similar, a soup plate being thrown by her hand with the movement of her own wrist. It hit the old cement wall in front of her and shattered.
One of the pieces was roughly heart-shaped and, because of this, she had to pick it up and push it against the fragile skin of her inner left forearm.
Of course, as the most recent occurence, this was all a fantasy. Not one that, either time, she wanted to transport to reality.
The difference between the two events was rather visible and she, too, realised this.
With that, she could not hold back the image of the broken piece being sucked by her skin and traveling to the place immediately behind her eyes, where it stayed, on guard, for all those years.
It never got weak, or allowed any light in. Until the bottle incident, of course. How magnificent would all this had been if it were only partialy real.
If nothing is entirely real, but merely our interpretation of reality, how absurd is it to imagine these silly moments?
I don't believe it to be absurd at all.