Tuesday, July 1, 2008
Why?
Being on the bus for an hour and a half makes you think. A lot.
What I thought in the bus today on the way home was that I have this personal house somewhere that I can go to when I'm stressed up or downright angry. The house is a modern-looking home, blocky-looking, with floor to ceiling tinted glass windows. It is triple-storeyed with a sun roof. There's a garage that keeps my Lexus. The house is sound proof.
There's a door in the garage that leads to another room, a secret room. This room looks just like any other huge luxurious-looking room, only it's not carpeted, but has a polished parquet flooring. To the left wall, it has shelves and shelves of neatly arranged expensive-looking pieces made of porcelain or glass. The opposite wall has a life-sized human-shaped punching bag. At the corner next to it, there's a random-shaped, moderately-easy-to-dent item. A rack of baseball bat stands next to it. The room has speakers installed, invisible to the eye, that gives out excellent quality sound, just like in the movie theaters.
One day, I'm over at the house, bursting with pent up anger, stress, depression. I lock the door and charge into the secret room. I turn on the stereo, blasting the music loud enough you could feel the vibrations from the outside, but soft enough for myself to hear the crashes and the bangs I'm about to make.
Depending on my mood and how much energy I have that day, I'll probably start with the shelves of porcelain and glass pieces. It's my favourite, anyway. Thinking about the day, the event that caused me to get so mad, as quick as lightning I grab the fragile pieces and start throwing them against the wall, grunting and screaming as they smash into pieces. I get so mad, tears start welling up in my eyes. When I begin to tire, I throw one last piece of glass against the wall.
Then my knees give way. I fall to the floor and cry my heart out.
In my own world,
11:48 PM
