When I was 17, I destroyed a barn.
My father had deemed one of our farm’s crumbling outbuildings beyond repair, and set me and my brother loose.
We came to it gleeful and howling, armed with hammer and sledge, eager to smash it to pieces in a bacchanal of destruction.
Minutes later, chests heaving, faces glistening with sweat, we stared in dismay at the un-budged structure: all we had to show for our wild smashing was a few dented boards.
Decrepit as it was, that small barn did not come apart so easily, did not comply with our brute, exuberant force.