He stood quickly from the low stool in the alcove that he’d set up for his meditation. He turned toward the wall, where he had hung an “infinity mirror”: a black octagonal frame held a perimeter of small lights between a transparent piece of glass and a mirror, causing a series of reflections in the mirror to resemble a tunnel of lights receding into the distance.
Spock put his fist through it.
The front glass shattered and fell in shards to the floor, the pieces landing with a clash. The mirror splintered but remained relatively intact, only a single thin wedge falling free. The tunnel effect of the reflected lights vanished.
As Spock pulled back his hand, he saw lacerations in his flesh, his blood flowing green from them. He wrapped his other hand around his injured fist and fixated on the physical pain. He needed something—almost anything—to help him pull his emotions into check.
But Spock had no control. He had no quietude. And he mourned.
He understood the logic of the situation, but logic failed him. Emotion alone drove him.
And the time had come for him to do something about it.