Surreality (fiction)

I read about this woman, once, that hated phones. She didn’t have a phone and had to resort to using payphones if she wanted to call anyone. This was because she had twice received phone calls which delivered the news to her that a loved family member had passed away. It would make me leery of phones too, but I’m leery about a lot of things.

I’m leery about the news. It’s all rather irrelevant and blown out of proportion. Wars are being fought, people are being murdered and tornadoes are mowing down trailer parks. That’s always happened throughout history, except trailer parks are a relatively new addition.

Sometimes, when I’m driving down the highway at 100 or 110 or 120 km/hr I think “Why don’t people just steer their cars into incoming traffic?”. The only thing between us and instantaneous death is a line painted down the middle of the road. I find that amazing. Why aren’t more people pushed in front of trains? How come more people don’t scream at the top of their lungs when they’re in shopping malls? And yet we say “Sorry!” when someone steps on our feet.

We all have our realities, and our realities are real only to ourselves. I cannot perceive your reality, though I may be able – through concentration and a lot of surmising – to come close. Your reality isn’t really of any importance to me, anyways. It only affects me to the extent that it infringes upon my reality, at which point I will be motivated to do something about it. Perhaps, then, I will push you in front of a bus or start pulling clothing off the racks of some upscale clothing store and flinging it about haphazardly while stunned onlookers try to discern how this affects them.

* * *

“How are you doing today?” he asks.

“Fine,” she shrugs.