A Balloon, A Dream, And A Vanishing Act
At sixteen, I perched atop a red balloon, floating weightlessly above a sea of cactuses. Suspended between reality and unconsciousness, I felt myself rising, drifting, escaping. And then—I ran. I ran into the world, believing I had left everything behind.
But my body lingered.
It stood between the walls of my childhood home, staring at my aunt’s paintings. A still life, forever motionless—except for when I blinked. With each flicker of my eyelashes, the painting transformed into a silent animation, a film only I could see.
I carried an immense silence then. It wrapped around me like a heavy coat, suffocating yet familiar. I could hear nothing but my breath and the distant hum of the street. Sometimes, a stray piano note drifted through the walls. Other times, car horns fought for dominance. More often than not, the chaos outside molded itself into a rhythm, a symphony of unintentional melodies.
The thin walls of my home failed to contain the voices of our neighbors, yet the sounds arrived distorted, as if they weren’t coming from outside, but from somewhere deep within me. I wondered then—why wouldn’t my body stay quiet? Why did it absorb the noise like a sponge, swelling with every decibel? Was I becoming an instrument of the world, a mere device, a vessel designed to be filled with the endless racket of existence?
Meanwhile, my mind ran wild, soaring beyond walls and borders, melting into nameless faces, collecting stories, hoarding sounds. It poured them all into my fragile frame until I could take no more.
And so, I surrendered.
The Music of Love and Disillusion
I dove headfirst into the crowd, blending into the lives of strangers, allowing their emotions to seep into my skin. I had dreams, ideals, faith in humanity. But I misunderstood them.
I gave away pieces of myself to every person who loved me, but inside, I was too filled with noise to love back. My pleasures became warped, my desires excessive. The simple joys of life dulled against my insatiable need for intensity.
Objects whisper memories, each carrying a piece of the past. The grand piano in my grandparents’ home sang of summer afternoons, where my tiny fingers pressed its keys, composing clumsy, childish tunes. My grandmother, patient and kind, clapped for me as if I were Mozart reborn. My grandfather, less amused, grumbled that I was disturbing the neighbors.
How could I?
How could my fragile, wandering notes push through thick walls, cross the yard, leap the fence, and crash into someone else’s lunch in the garden next door? Impossible.
And yet, I believed it.
Believed that my existence, in its rawest form, was too much.
The Puppet and Its Master
Recently, my mother found an old marionette she had made for me when I was little. She had crafted it with care, then danced alongside me, animating the wooden doll as she sang a song she had composed just for us.
Memories, I realized then, were fleeting—cruelly so. They arrive in torrents, drenching you in their embrace, only to leave you cold and empty, clutching at the last few droplets.
As I grew, I became the marionette.
At times, I was controlled by unseen hands, manipulated by other puppets, grand figures with fiery red hair, icy blue eyes, and velvet lips, cloaked in extravagant costumes that concealed crisp white shirts and polished ties.
And then there was me.
A tiny figure on the stage, dressed in ripped jeans and scuffed sneakers, a faded t-shirt scrawled with obscure words, eyes shadowed with exhaustion, lips cracked and dry. Hair jagged and uneven, neither shaped nor colored, existing in a limbo of undefined identity.
The strings left their marks on me, bruising my wrists and ankles, purple constellations blooming on my skin—faint scars of failed, foolish attempts to break free.
Why couldn’t this marionette sing? Why couldn’t she speak? Why couldn’t she scream?
Her strings dictated laughter and tears—nothing more.
I wanted to learn how to scream—to scream that I was alive, that I loved, that I existed beyond that stage.
But love, for me, was merely a distraction, an excuse to avoid the mundane rhythm of everyday life. I lacked the patience for conversation, the endurance for listening. I had only the patience for my own thoughts, for the endless monologue looping in my mind.
I lacked even the patience to shout.
The weight of my own voice—thick, heavy, unyielding—terrified me. The idea that my words might escape, might collide with another soul, might be understood—
That was the most frightening thought of all.
I was paralyzed by the possibility of being known.
