Every weekend has fireworks where I am.
It’s just some peculiarity about where I live. I don’t know if I just happen to live in the highest per capita fireworks store owners per square centimeter area of the world, or if it’s just some secret explosion worshiping cult that has bought up the homes, but there are fireworks every weekend. This isn’t a special occasion. Well, it is, being New Year’s and all that, but the reason I’m writing this while being bounced in my chair from the shock waves of genuine, I-shit-you-not professional fireworks shells is that it’s Saturday, and not because it’s New Year’s eve/day.
My mind often wanders to writing about a war between two towns (I live on a border of two towns, and the fireworks come from both sides of the lake), and I’ve caught myself on many occasions questioning why I would possibly think about that particular topic. That question spins around in my mind, and sometimes I get the idea that it’s some violent defect in my subconscious that wants to emerge. Some primordial blood lust that I should suppress in case I become too fond of explosions and carnage. But it’s not anything in my subconscious. It’s these damned real life explosions that are manipulating my thoughts, and apparently while I’m trying to figure out why I often think of writing some dumb story of tow towns going to war my mind is trying to stuff the weekly artillery barrage deep into my unconscious, probably to keep me from diving for cover each time I hear a faint whistling sound. I’ve just suddenly realized why I removed the whistle from the tea kettle.
It’s a silly story idea, but it could be amusing as a farce. This year, as therapy for my fireworks induced PTSD, I think I’ll write it. Something about the towns arguing over a shared garbage dump, or maybe sewage lines being manipulated to squirt feces laden sludge out of one town’s toilets. There’s some laughs there. Not many, but it’ll have to do for a quick thought on a tired night.
