Parallel Universe — Broken Table

It was during the afternoon when I stumbled across the broken table. Outside one of the lecture buildings where they were doing some extremely noisy construction, lay a really really old table. Vintage, even. Not that I would have gone out of my way to spend a trillion pounds on an old looking table because it was merely labelled vintage. A lot, maybe, but not a trillion.

But, well used or just old, I couldn’t help but notice that it looked quite lonely.

I’m not sure if it was meant to be there, that lone table lying haphazardly on it’s side, two legs hanging off at the wrong angles and a leg sat neatly beside it. And to be quite honest, I probably wouldn’t have noticed it if it wasn’t for the bold text staring me right in the face.

Don’t turn around.

I did as it told me. Of course I did, wouldn’t you? I mean, yeah sure, there probably wasn’t anything behind me and the table probably wasn’t some kind of psychic force, sat in waiting for my arrival, but I still wanted to respect the table’s wishes. After all, it was pretty out of shape and all alone, how could I not do what it was asking of me? You always have to remember your table manners.

I had to wonder, though, who might have dared to do that to a table, and if that was the reason why they were throwing it out. Maybe they were bored, sat in a lecture pretending (and failing) to pay any attention whatsoever. Or maybe, maybe they had a vision, some kind of mystical creature calling to them and leaving them a warning — give them a sign, warn the future construction workers, be that kind of table!

But then, you always have to wonder what is going through anybody’s head at any point of time. It’s not like every action is driven by reason, and it’s not like every action is reasonable. And if, deep down, you have always wanted to write in bold letters across a table, then why should you have to think about it? Why not just go for it? Because maybe there might be somebody who will one day stumble across the table, see your masterpiece, and then unknowingly think of you.

Maybe this is your little piece of fame, etched not-so-neatly onto a broken table.

I wonder if that’s why they did it in the first place.

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