Balloons...

Floating high in the sky.  Multi-colored brightness shining.  Filled to the brim with air.  Sources of giddy laughter, gripped by chubby little child hands, gifts to celebrate joy.  Able to soar against backdrops of blue while alongside puffs of white cumulous weather.  Up further and further, away from it all, until a big earth perspective is replaced with a new identity: speck. 

Some days I feel like a balloon.  (No, I am not talking about my weight, although...)  Balloons have such high moments.  Outwardly, their colors stand out and they share their lightness wherever they float.  I mean, let's face it, you don't send your condolences about a death in the family with a balloon.  Most days I float beyond the here and now.  My heart gains altitude and seeks after its one, true source of joy.  I have so many reasons to be thankful and beaming.  Hope holds my string and allows me to rise above the melancholies of this life.  Gliding along, my sight takes in the whole picture, I can see the earth in its true smallness in relation to the universe.  The sky's colors are a vivid living photograph, so much better than any framed piece in a museum.  

There are always two perspectives though. 

Plummeting to the dirt.  Washed out, wrinkled rubber.  Emptied insides spilled across areas unknown.  Found in the dark hours defined as the aftermath of joy, scuffed out of the way by shoe bottoms, additions to the refuse pile.  Immoveable, lacking any signs of life, with no out in view.  Popped exploding made possible by all things sharp, jagged.  From below, every obstacle looms with grey, black swirls and monumental, insurmountable presence.

Some days I feel like a balloon.  Balloons experience plunging lows.  They fall victim to the slightest puncture wound.  Deflating blows which come at what seems like the most friendly situation.  You know them.  Think about a pine tree, evergreen and tall in stature, ongoing through all seasons, provider of shade and graceful form.  Yet, a balloon comes into contact with even one of its needles and BAM.  Balloons aren't the only ones who feel the impact of needles.  My heart can relate.  More often, the needles occur in succession, one after the other after the other after the other.  Hope let go of my string.  Or maybe I pulled away from Hope convinced I would be okay to float high on my own?

Some days I feel like a balloon.  Filled and just waiting to be popped.