Imagination.

Thanks mot!

Sometime I would imagine there were bombs hidden under the table when I was out at a crowded place. I would imagine there was a package taped under my table, perfect red cylindrical sticks of dynamite waiting in anticipation to explode. I would imagine the rhythmic ticking counting down to the final explosion and I would cross my arms and hug my body waiting for the blast that would inevitably come. And then I would close my eyes and imagine my body exploding into a magnificent kaleidoscope of bits and limbs that would litter the sky against a backdrop of deep orange flames and the red hot heat. It was so beautiful to watch the burnt ash of everything rain down and stick and cling to the dregs of bodies and building parts, and I would smile. But when I opened my eyes again there I was sitting in a crowded bar listening to music from a far away land that combined fiddles and flutes and voices that sang out and hands that clapped and feet that stomped and faces that smiled.

I don't smile, but when I close my eyes and see the bright flashes of color behind my lids, my lips slowly turn up.