sometimes stories are easier to live in

Their smiles could be found in the colorful radiant balloons that every little kid believed could lift them toward the why is the sky blue sky and the I want to eat those ginormous balls of cotton candy clouds.

The countless balloons are pulling the youthful vagabonds along, catching their restless eyes and minds and hearts in different ways.  They don't know why they're gazing but they can't break the trance.  There are too many strings slipping from their grasps.  They never meant to let go.  They can't grab the fading colors no matter how desperately their little feet pound the earth or how far the wind carries the symphony of their sorrows.  They can't fly because their wings haven't grown in yet.  And they never will. Growing up will keep them from ever spreading open.

Their hearts are heavy with unbearable sadness.  Slowing them down until they stop running altogether.  They stay rooted to the ground looking up at the sky. They watch the sky as light fades to dark.  They watch the sky as the sun and moon try to talk with each other as they pass because the planets and the stars don't make it any less lonely up there.  They watch the sky as the rain drenches their clothes, as lightning strikes the trees, as leaves fall to their feet, as blizzards build snow drifts around them, as puddles form, and as flowers begin growing again.

Long after the specks of colors have disappeared from their sight into somewhere else entirely, they still stay; with their eyes glued to the sky as the occasional hawk circles and the occasional star falls.  After a while, the kids begin shifting their eyes toward the ground.  One by one, they walk away defeated until I'm the only one left, wondering when my balloons will come back.

"Thomas Edison's last words were 'It's very beautiful over there'. I don't know where there is, but I believe it's somewhere, and I hope it's beautiful." - Looking for Alaska.