not everybody has a story. some stories are just fabricated in their minds, pulled together from thoughts and memories magnetically until they form a condensed sphere like a liquid disco ball, spinning rapidly like unmodeled clay on a table top, changing shape every time there’s even the slightest touch.
for a second, she accidentally presses too hard, and her finger indents itself into the sphere, pulling a deep cut across the surface. startled, she retracts her hand from the spinning memories that have been gathered to form a background, unwilling to allow the action to set precedent to any kind of future.
slowly, the pressure on the pedal eases and the spinning begins to slow. she stops adding to the mass of thoughts, and it begins to dry, the laceration stiffening like concrete setting in its final place.
she looks upon the finality of her masterpiece, reaching towards it with her dirty hands, painting streaks across it with her fingers, the marks trailing away like the last stroke of calligraphy. every touch seems to affect the sphere of thoughts she has gathered, and she can only think of one way to achieve freedom.
glancing behind her, she sees the reflection of the light outside on a sharp piece of silverware. it catches her eye and the skin of her fingers, which bleed slowly from the impact of the serrated edge against something soft and made to be broken. for why else would it have the ability to heal?
but the giant ball of thoughts is unable to repair itself. there it sits, its various marks drying into its body, so many imperfections that she can barely stand to look at it any longer. with the knife in her hand she strikes down at the mass before her, relentlessly hacking away until all that’s left is an array of separated puzzle pieces that are no longer able to be pieced together.
relieved yet uncertain, she brushes the fragments away, wondering what would now set the foundations for the future. and slowly but surely, she can feel the thoughts and memories beginning to accumulate once again.