Last Saturday, I used an analogy that I believe gives an accurate description to one of the processes that takes place in my mind.
I call it the balloons in mind.
Because it's my last year of school, because it's things I worry about, because it's that person I just don't know how to deal with, because you don't know how to get the wording right, because what's going to happen in June, because, because, because, because...
Because as I think of all these things I blow another breath of air into the balloons in my mind.They continue to expand and grow until the red one is bigger than the blue one, and the yellow gets pushed to the side, while the orange one, it stay the size of a medium grapefruit. With each conversation, as the breath travels up my chest and out of the pink flesh of my lungs, and into my mouth that tastes like coffee, a breath is exhaled. My words are exhaled into the balloons. They get filled with the worry and the doubt and the hopes and the dreams about everything and anything that flutters through my mind.
And the bouquet of balloons in my mind? They float to the top of my skull and push and tangle with each other at different moments, until sometimes the pressure is too much and I cry or I scream. Some get flat and whither away to their wrinkled balloon death until they match the wrinkled skin of my grey brain.
My head though? One day will it float away? Will you look into the sky and see my shortly cropped head floating away in the distance, only strings hanging where my body used to be? And will you wave?
Because it's my last year of school, because it's things I worry about, because it's that person I just don't know how to deal with, because you don't know how to get the wording right, because what's going to happen in June, because, because, because, because...
Because as I think of all these things I blow another breath of air into the balloons in my mind.They continue to expand and grow until the red one is bigger than the blue one, and the yellow gets pushed to the side, while the orange one, it stay the size of a medium grapefruit. With each conversation, as the breath travels up my chest and out of the pink flesh of my lungs, and into my mouth that tastes like coffee, a breath is exhaled. My words are exhaled into the balloons. They get filled with the worry and the doubt and the hopes and the dreams about everything and anything that flutters through my mind.
And the bouquet of balloons in my mind? They float to the top of my skull and push and tangle with each other at different moments, until sometimes the pressure is too much and I cry or I scream. Some get flat and whither away to their wrinkled balloon death until they match the wrinkled skin of my grey brain.
My head though? One day will it float away? Will you look into the sky and see my shortly cropped head floating away in the distance, only strings hanging where my body used to be? And will you wave?
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