Straight from Hell

Ballooning in Emotion

A practice in description

During a time of carefree enjoyment and careless action, I was gifted some ballons. It was a bouquet of many colors, some warm, some cool. A bundle of rubber spheres only held down by my loose grip on the coarse fiber of its white rope.

At the time I was happy, a simple emotion caused by an even simpler reason. I liked the way the balloons bobbed in the air when I tugged sharply down. I liked the way it followed behind me as I walked ahead. It was like a puppy I never got to keep. I liked how large it was when I finally did pull it into my small hands, each one was bigger than my face, material stretched thin by helium. I even liked the way the light reflected off of the balloons, it kind of reminds me of the moon, one side in the shade, the other a dull white.

I went out to play. I had played previously with a twist car I played with before. I knew the feeling of wind seemingly rushing into me and past me as I gained momentum from the incline. I knew the thrill of the large gate looming over me to stop my fast pace. I knew the feeling of deciding to go straight, letting go of the wheel,  and only stopping when my outstretched hands slammed into the heat of the iron barrier, and of the bruises that would definitely develop after. I also knew of steering to the left, into the grass, right before reaching the gate, my legs often scraping against the rough pavement as I try to use them to stop me from crashing, causing scratches that would sting even a days after.

Joyful as I was, I took the the bouquet out to bring with me as I played. I had tied it to the black steering wheel of a blue twist car. My right hand resting just below the knot of the stems as I pushed off the ground with both feet, the bundle forming a barrier between me and the sun. The sky was a burning blue, interspersed with white clouds on a beautiful day, usually only interrupted by the leaves of my Lola's garden, trees standing tall beside the driveway. I was beginning to travel down the shallow ramp but before I could get even halfway down the way I realized something. The sun was shining down on me. When I looked up my simple joy was escaping through the gaps of green, slowly and gently floating up into the distance past where I can see.

During a time of simple worries and simple thoughts, I was handed a balloon. I don't remember what color it was anymore, whether it was warm or cool. It was a singular sphere, tethered by a coarse rope that was tightly woven around my fingers and palm into a tangled mess.

At the time I held on tightly, I had taken away a simple joy someone else could have received, I had carelessly let go of something someone gave to me. In that dim library with the jalousie windows, where I first received a bouquet and then was given a singular flower, when the light filtered through the open slats of frosted glass, when the balloon turned just the right way after being subjected to the soft breeze, I could have read "Happy Birthday," printed in small white letters.

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A practice in analogy, personification

Many of those balloons were tangled in the gray landscape. From carefully planted trees surrounded by carefully placed gravel to the towering high-rises of cement and steel, from the tall supports of bridges to long dangling wires between posts, those could have been caught on anything. Eventually falling into the forest's asphalt.

A few would rise up. Perhaps trying to follow the tail of those that rose higher. It would also float up and up and up until no longer. From larger than to as large as to even smaller than a child's face. As it slowly descends and slowly deflates, if once again it was filled with helium could it do it all over again? Would the rubber be damaged beyond repair? Could no amount of tape be able to keep in that air? Would it linger, just floating slightly above the floor? Would even that be a chore?

A few balloons could have risen high up. Perhaps fewer still reached the point of explosion. As it continued to aimlessly float up, as the atmosphere reduced more, as it continued to expand it steadily grew distant to the ground, away from that rough pavement, that warm cement full of dull gray. Eventually though, it reaches a point. What was once stretched large enough to be bigger than a child's face quickly and abruptly becomes a few scant centimeters. Insignificant pieces drifts just as aimlessly to the bottom, embraced by what it was once moving away from, that warm and rough ground.