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  • When I was sixteen I dreamt a photograph of balloons in the sky, inflatables of color illuminating the sky with its sheer boldness to be seen. floating up and filling these lungs with helium, breathe in , why don’t you float a little too my dear.

    When I was little my favorite bracelet was a balloon tied around my wrist. when the greatest devastation was awakening the next morning to find it at the foot of my bed, lifeless, but still bright. like a tease that maybe it could still make it and fly and I would stand on top of the bed and drop it, watching the descent back down. and it would bounce softly a few times, a delicate loss it was.

    Sometimes it’s nice to pull the covers over yourself and hide from the world for a while, sometimes you don’t want to be seen. You don’t want to be bold. The thoughts inside begin to explode like balloons that go off in the sky but we never see that part of the story.

    When I was little I would wave them goodbye, say hello to the moon for me.
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