A wooden chair.

There was a chair floating. An ordinary wooden chair. No wings or ropes, no tricks. A chair, somewhere between air and logic, above a zebra crossing. And yet I kept walking.

What should I have done? Stop? Throw my head back, point, shout, alert people? Take pictures, like, post, hashtag? No. I chose something else: denial. An act in itself. Elegant in its simplicity. Celebrated in its absence.

Because let's face it: once you give in to the inexplicable, you lose your grip on everything that is supposedly 'normal'. A floating chair opens the door to questions for which no one has a decent answer. And I didn't want that. Not on a Monday morning. Not with a coffee to go in my hand. Not with work on my mind.

So I looked away. No chair. No floating. Nothing going on.

And the traffic light? It was red, yes. But what weighs more: a traffic rule or the threatening weight of giving meaning to something that evades it? That chair, free from gravity and civic responsibility, had already freed me from ordinary laws. So why should I stop?

I crossed. As if I saw nothing. Because I saw nothing wild see. Because sometimes it's safer to live in a world where chairs don't fly and zebra crossings are just lines.

Some call it cowardice. I call it self-protection. Maybe even maturity.

Because when chairs start to float, nothing is certain anymore. And then it is better to keep walking.