Ahuh.
It’s like I was born tied to millions of colorful helium balloons raising me up, flying aimlessly wherever the wind takes me. Like Mrs. Twit.
Mrs. Twit* was pulled up high by hundreds of balloons; she kept flying upwards and away from the ground, till she found a way to come back down. Unlike Mrs. Twit, I did enjoy my balloons ride – if I may figuratively call it so. Yet, like Mrs. Twit, I had to start coming down.
Every year, a couple of balloons – sometimes a few at a time – inflate or blow up. And with every balloon that is no more, the force pulling me up is weakened just a bit, and gravity takes advantage and pulls me down just a tad bit.
I tried to calculate the average number of balloons I lose per year, in order to be able to calculate the estimated time I have left before I hit the ground once and for all. But it’s not consistent! Some years passed by with only one lost balloon per year (and those were my youngest years), some others there were just about two balloons down, and some other years a whole group of similarly colored balloons would just decide to blow up together at once! And that would be more evident in the most recent years.
I tried to come up with some theory. Like maybe the number of balloons that are down each year are somehow proportionate to the number of years that are added to me. But then, it can’t be accurate! I’ve noticed through close observation of my most recent years, that it’s not exactly proportionate. In fact there are other factors that make it rather circumstantial. Weather conditions cannot be disregarded you see. Occasional thunder storms and lightning could have effect on balloons. Let alone that every now and then, an envious earth creature would jump up high, prick one of my balloons with a needle, and then fall back to the ground with a sense of accomplishment. Absolute malice I know! And these things, these creatures and those thunder storms, are not always predictable. As a result, it gets rather hard to be able to come up with an average number of balloons lost per year, hence getting much harder to determine the estimated moment or day or week which would witness my great graceful and dreadful landing to earth.
A thought just hit me: Why am I trying to figure out WHEN do I hit the ground and join the crowd? That’s mighty negative of me! I’m not saying I should remain looking upwards, admiring the site of my colorful balloons as they hang in the sky, although that would be a pretty thought. But why the hell look down?
MAYBE I will never really hit the ground – alive at least. Maybe, my slow trip down, which is un-calculate-able, would be interrupted with… say… my mortality. Maybe I get to die first. Maybe one of those lightning strokes would strike ME instead of a balloon one of those times. Or maybe, simply, my time would just come before I ever have to touch the ground. Maybe living down there forever is not meant for me. I wouldn’t know now. All I know is that the closer I come to earth, the further away from the sky, the more choked up I become, the more frantic and mundane.
I look up, I see colors and I smell sea breezes from far away. I look down, I see nothingness, and I smell dust. I look straight ahead and around, I see others who are more or less like me. I smell familiarity, with a little mix of what’s up and what’s down. And I hear music.
Mrs. Twit had no idea how lucky she was when her husband tore that string that tied her feet down and left her shooting up toward the sky! Blockheaded half-wit! Don’t you just hate it when people reject their blessings and hope that they’re reversed?!
Meanwhile, I should stop theorizing and calculating and estimating and philosophizing, and just enjoy my ride… as long as it lasts.
*Mrs Twit: from Roald Dahl’s The Twits
Evaluna
They Said...