I sit to rest a while, on the edge of a magnificent, impressive bridge. It is a monstrous mix of metal, looking like machinery, like a robotic arm ready to move both masses of land which it joins. Sitting in the middle of it, I make believe these are my arms, like I can move these peninsulas according to my whims and gather the boats beneath into a pile in the sea just for its aesthetic value. Just to temporarily please my wandering mind and waning sense of self, like priding yourself over making a sculpture of pretzels at a bar whilst getting drunk, but instead of whiskey I have the warm sun and my weariness. I laugh to myself as my giant robot man-day dream begins to turn into a Japanese animation.
I open my eyes and look at my real arm, my hand has been bandaged up after an accident involving a rusted screw piercing my palm. There is something about having a bandaged hand or a slight limp in your step that makes you feel a little bit more masculine, like a boxer or a wounded soldier or Clint Eastwood, it makes you want to spit in the dirt. I reach two fingers into my inside breast pocket, but instead of a .44 Magnum I pull out a small bar of hotel soap. I unwrap the little plastic packaging with a slow smooth finger move and drop the bar down below me, into the sea. It fizzles a while, I watch with the warm Mediterranean wind blowing my straw like hair madly and I smile an evil grin. I Look to either side and spot a pretty girl who has just witnessed my strange act, I quickly try to rub the evil out of my grin and replace it with something nice, but by the crunch of her eyebrows and the wrinkles on her forehead I realize I have failed to redeem myself and she looks down at her feet and continues to walk across and off the bridge.
Frustrated, I dig through my rucksack to find another bar of hotel soap I rip the plastic off with lightning speed and stand up. I look calmly into the distance a moment then peg the soap off the bridge as far as I can, it pains my raw palm wound but the pain is worth the distance. The bar flies through the air, flipping and soaring in slow motion. While watching in anticipation I feel my hand begin to bleed again. The bar collides with the mast of one of the tall sailing ships with a loud clang, it bounces back a few meters and into the deep green sea. It seems to bubble and boil, as does the blood in the middle of my palm seeping into my dirty white bandage. I start to breathe heavily, standing with my legs spread shoulder width apart.
If a pen can be a sword and a boxer can be a butterfly, can a bar of hotel soap be a .44 Magnum?
