A balloon for your thought
The art of writing holds beauty in every aspect. For some, it is the way the pen scratches the paper; for others, it is how the keyboard clacks and every metaphor that is being said. For me, it took a while to discover what it really was. An idea sparks in my mind, like balloons slipping from my hands. It comes so fast that I must chase it down and catch the idea before it disappears. Once caught, I examine every detail, every imperfection, and every hidden nuance—even the pores that lay beneath its skin.
The difference in my writing is the fact that I don’t write about the balloons’ bright colours or the way their patterns spiral around them. I write about their imperfections that hide a deeper form of beauty. A beauty that others can’t see at first glance. To me, that is the dual nature of writing—complexity driven by passion. Art that only a writer can see. A writer, to me, is a reader with a strong perception of the tragedies revealed by reality. But you need to understand that it doesn’t always work.
No matter how easily you can grasp the balloon or how well you can inflate it to perfection, it won’t always end well. I have spotted balloons floating in the sky. Floating so high in the sky, they taunt me with their elusiveness. It laughs at how far I am from the strings that dance gracefully between the clouds. Sometimes I manage to reach it. I pull onto the string, bringing it towards me. But it drifts away slowly, caressing my fingers as it does so.
Despite this, I persist. I sit there, arms over my legs. Head over my knees. I shrivel up and rest my eyes, hoping that there will soon be another balloon tapping my shoulder. I have built a tower, a tower of previous ideas, as if it were a monument to my determination. A tower of pens and pencils stacked upon each other. Determined, I extend my arm far above.
My fingers dangling in the air, just within reach of the glowing orb. And alas, I grabbed it. I tug at it strongly. I grab it tight with my fingers wrapped around each other. Now all I have to do is climb down the tower with the balloon in victory. But today feels different. Today I stand at the edge of the tower with the balloons swaying side to side. I lift my feet off the ground and allow the balloon to carry me. To carry me into a world where the balloons come to me, or perhaps I simply let it go.
(The writer is a Class 10 student)