I tipped the vase from the mantle and it smashed on the fireplace. There was no water in it and when I knelt down to gather up the pieces, I sat there examining them, noting the cleanness of the breaks. There was one large piece, part of the base. The neck broke into three imperfect parts. The edge of one sharp piece cut the tip of my finger. I watched a little drop of blood gather there, and gave my finger a little squeeze to bring a bit more to the surface.
It’s easier to destroy than to create. Creation is hard. Writing is hard. I’ve often looked at my endless rows of journals and seriously considered setting fire to them. There was something delicious in the sound of glass breaking and I found myself scanning the room for something more to break. My eyes rested on a picture frame of metal with jewelled edges. I ran a finger across the top of its smooth surface and pictured flinging it full pelt at the French doors.
Sometimes when we break things, there’s that sick instant regret at our own clumsiness. But what would it be like to perform a random act of destruction just to see what it feels like? Try writing about destruction as a theme.