Paging through the pictures and sepia postcards is a pleasant activity once you are back from yet another trip. In all honesty, I do not travel as much in reality as I do in my imagination. Visiting tiny bookstores where books are warm from the Sun as if they are just out of print, marveling at colours which could be names of desserts: vermilion, titian, bisque, puce, smalt. You add associations to the chemical composition of the photographic developer and memories help to make your latent image visible, memories and a bit of light. It cannot happen without light! Who would have though bittersweet is a colour. Flânerie is in full swing, you stroll up and down every street, walk around every park, from bench to bench, from page to page. Spring is uncontrollable, like unruly curls which are always in your eyes. You are experiencing the city in a million different ways, sometimes being unaware of it. Yes, it is idling but it is also the time when your mind absorbs, digests, organizes the changes brought by spring. Even if it happens every year, it seems we tend to forget how green, green can be, how deep navy-blue sky is, how warm the sun feels, how fresh the wind smells. We need time to observe and be reminded of these changes. As the spring is taking its toll, flânerie flourishes as winter sets the spring birds free from its icy cages, the soft catkins curl up on the branches of trees and we walk, walk and walk on.
Lighthouses always remind me of some distant dreams. The light gives hope and creates an illusion of closeness. It makes you believe the worst storm can be weathered.
No tricks just treats. It is warm and sunny, the air feels like velvet, the rain is preparing for the night, the sun is setting cautiously and the lighthouse is blinking standing guard as it always does no matter what the weather is.
A bitter sweet taste, the rain falling on the asphalt sounds as if a piece of dry wood is being rubbed with a piece of sandpaper. Cotton candy clouds will soon melt away.
Burgundy, Crimson, Nutmeg.
I can almost feel it and touch it.
The water color landscape seems a bit washed out by the rain and the picture of some dark foggy city is in sepia tints.
The apples are particularly poignant and the wind rustles my hair as if we have been friends for a long time. Together with the rising wind there is some poignant anxiety in the air. It is time to get ready to fly, to move, to leave, not to be afraid to look back as the train is taking you away.
Autumn is making everything look vintage, summer is getting old in front of our eyes, all summer in a day over and over again. I can see million of dust particles in the decaying rays of sun, they are all flying upwards and going nowhere.
I put on my French looking jumper with buttons at one side of the neck.
I jump into autumn headlong, hoping that the heap of leaves is soft and crusty. It is never easy to really part with summer, it is nostalgic, it is like leaving home, it is like opening a letter and not writing back for a long time. It is obscure, unreasonably colourful and not necessarily funny.
I want to start July with a story with a feeling of traveling from place to place on foot, some intensive journey, an expedition where you can think a lot about the process of traveling.
I want to start July with a new notepad and a pen, with a fresh smell of coffee wafting through the air, with a curtain ironed by the sun light of the summer morning, with a very very fresh breeze playing with the papers on my table, with the piercing cries of sea gulls above my house which is so close to the sky.
It feels like we are going to know each other forever, I go up the stairs and they are staring back at me. Afternoon taste of burnt caramel and evenings smell of the sea.
I am not sure how my stories appear, I am pretty sure I bookmarked them a while ago and now it is just a matter of finding the right page.
I toss and turn in my bed until I realize morning has been waiting for me for a long time already. I get up to find myself in a very green room with orange curtains, summer is doing its job well, it promised us colours and colours we have. I look around my flat as if I am in the woods. The ceiling seems far away as far as the sky. Through my oval windows in the ceiling I am looking at the sky, the blue clouds are floating busily, the wind is rearranging them on the sky and the sun is peering from behind the cloud from time to time. This is summer, a season which I cannot describe and explain, it is too flashy , to hasty , to crammed with emotions, there is no room for old newspapers and empty bottles, no room for old candles and thick books; you are always in a hurry and yet you are always late.
I finally have time to sit down and write. Write for pleasure, write as long as I want , as much as I want, as little as I want. I am not even sure about the deadlines, I only keep in mind that summer is fleeting.
To win would be worse than to lose in this race, so I call my friends, eat strawberries and write. This is the first time in a long time I am on holidays, after all what is summer for?
I make plans to read and walk, shop and spend little time on the Internet but I still search for movies and music.
I learn a lot of Italian words, they sound like summer, I buy some summer dresses and a lot of shoes.
I do not make any promises saying that this summer will never end. I am waiting.
We spent the hole night making dream catchers, it is ironic as we have never went to bed. In the morning the dream catchers were bright and shiny and the wind was playing with them like crazy twisting the feathers and fluffy colourful threads with its gentle fingers.
I went outside, the morning was nice and I was sure it was going to rain. A big truck passed me by and something was strange about it, suddenly it swayed around the corner and the doors opened. The truck driver pulled over to look at the damage his turn had caused. A lot of coffee bags were on the pavement and just when I thought about a cup of coffee it started to rain, I wish it rained milk.
I dream of hats and gerberas, they complete my summer that has just begun and yet is almost over. That’s why I am not sure how to write about summer, it seems it is here and at the same time it is not. It seems as if it is listening to you and yet it is miles away. It is far away in its own thoughts and all you are trying to do it attract its attention by saying-‘Listen to me! My story is the best! I have something to tell, I brought you a present’. Does it care? Only my dream catchers can somehow touch the edges of summer dreams, they understand how to do it, they know how to capture a moment, even a scary one as well as a happy one. I let my dreamcatchers collect all the summer dreams, to store away for the winter. Let’s see what they will have to tell me later when the cold will hold them in their grip squeezing the last of its warmth out. I am not ready for the cold, I do not want to be ready. I look straight at the sun with my eyes closed and I wait and I do not give up. I will store this honey light in a bottle, in my dream catcher, in my cup, in my book, I will absorb it with my hair and with my skin. I will finally be able to write about summer
At the door I always linger. I have been thinking of walking in for a while now but time, courage, motivation and money are the regular obstacles every person is aware of even if not all of those apply to the situation. Sometimes, even none of those but we still list them just to have reasons.
I dress up. Yes! It should be an important occasion since I have finally smoothed my way to success. I smile and hold my head high. I even do not wobble on my heels and have a perfect air of “I know what I am doing” about me.
I come to the door and ring the bell. The smell of geraniums is strong already even if I see them high up on the balcony. I quickly go through a list of names I normally use on such occasions – Cheryl, Candice, Brielle, Jennifer, Daisy and Rose. These are on top of the list and then the less flashy names that do not come to mind now. I am rehearsing in my head how I am going to say my name, how I am going to pronounce it, whether I am going to fake an accent ( something I am not good at and it helps), how I am going to shake hands or look in a weird way at the outstretched hand as if I do not know what to do. To my disappointment no one answers. I ring again, I did not come all this way for nothing and by all this way I do not mean a couple of blocks I walked, I mean all this time it took me to get here, to collect myself, to finally be prepared. I am not even ready to be disappointed. I ring twice and then once more.
I look up at the house. A stone balcony gives the building an air of elegance, flowers like colourful wigs of clowns are hanging from the balconies. I hear the click of the lock and then the sound of footsteps on the stairs. All right, I am not going to be surprised. I am just going to say…
– Hi, I am Brielle.
The lady looks at me through the thick glasses, sunglasses if I may add and does not react in any way.
– I am Brielle, from the lost and found office, – ( or lost property office, if you wish. For me lost and found sounds much more positive because we find, lost properly sounds irrevocably sad).
The lady makes some room for me to enter. She looks as if I lost something, not her and I feel a bit the same. I should be more confident, there is something I have found not lost.
I look at her and at the long corridor ahead of me and how much I still have to come up with while walking through the corridor to make my story plausible. It feels as if all the objects inside the house are staring intently at me, right into my brain, into what am I going to say now and I hear myself thinking and then only thing I am thinking is ” I am thinking”. She does not indicate that I should come in any further than I have already done. I feel happy about it.
– We lost some things but I am not sure we need them anymore, – she finally announces.
I can see that she is not sure. If only we could get rid of what we do not need but we are too scared someone might pick it up.
– Could you please sign here that you do not need our services anymore, – I give her the list.
– Should I sign or also tick off what you should not bring if you find it.
– Please tick off as well, – I say, -it will make our services more in line with the clients needs.
I look at the list before I give it to her. It is a regular form.
It takes her about a sec to deal with the procedure. I take the form and put my signature as well.
I walk back thinking that it was almost too easy. Summer air is scented with verbena, rosemary and mint but somehow I have last days of summer camp feeling. Normally, I wait till I come home to look at the list. This time I scan through as I am too curious and continue reading it as I walk. I have been working in lost and found since 1805 and still I am curious. Nothing new is being lost, however, and nothing new is being found. Why am I still curious then?!
The regular items on the lost list are sleep, faith, hope, weight, something you never had, in poker, friend, a dog, a job, track of time… I turn the page over. We are lost and found after all, I look at the comments box about out service, it says, – ” I lost my way to your office once and I was wondering who can help me in that case”. I smile to myself. Valid point, who is going to shave the barber. I walk on. I look at To find list and the page is blank. All right, we lost a lot of things at that house maybe we will find something at the next one. I walk on. A job should make one feel good, like today I lost my way but found my courage.
I find my way through the square and lose myself in the summer morning. I let the time slip away, to make sure I return back but not sure when. Then I realize I left my umbrella and a hat somewhere.
People pass me by as though I am not there and maybe I am not. I am trying to think back of where I have been before and might have left my property but it is lost in history, light and translation.
My bag is begging my to travel. It somehow always ends up near me, on my way, behind the door, under my bed. No point in resistance. I pack something of indigo,cyan, fuchsia and magenta colours and waltz around the room.
Summer could have at least sent a message that she was on the way. We have been friends with Summer for a while now but I do not know how it started, I thought it was because we liked the same books, she thought because we liked the same boys. That was in high school, I suppose. Not much has changed in my tastes in both areas and we are still friends with Summer.
She has arrived at around 14 just like promised, although I never know when to wait for her. She had a potted plant with her and one suitcase. I was very happy to see her, just as she was walking towards me, I thought how simple happiness could be and that during the moments like this we think it is simple. Summer was going to stay for a while, I knew it, I could see it in the way she walked and smiled and the potted plant gave her away as well. Summer was going to stay.
There was so much to talk about that nothing was said. I made tea and focused on forever. This is how it is going to be now. The whole eternity of warm soft breeze, flowers, ice cream. Foam on the sea looked like cappuccino and we took a stroll along the beach. I felt like I wanted to breath in all the air there was and talk for ages, never to stop, just talk and talk and talk. But never ask a tightrope walker how he keeps his balance. If he stops and thinks about it he will fall down. We walk what seemed like for hours but the beach never ended, the sky had not limit. It seemed like Summer was watching it all from the safe distance. I would understand why she did not want to talk much, in the heat all arguments got abandoned, drinks got warm quickly and linen was impossible to iron.
The apricot colored sun was about to set and we were still walking along the beach, the foam looked like lace on the sea and the air was slowly cooling down. How long can I actually spend here? One month? A week? Whole summer? I think I will start with one day. All the elapsed time does not frighten me.
Back in the house, Summer unpacks and we drink tea. She talks little, I do all the tea making and talking and she seems to be fine with that. I am thinking if it is ok to ask her why she has come in the first place or why she has arrived later than usually and why her attitude is so cold but instead I am talking about long winter and new movies. I am afraid that all these pent up emotions will end up in the rain of tears during the night but it will be fresh in the morning.
Despite her outward display of friendliness, I sense, she was concealing something. “I am leaving soon, you know that, right?- she told me in the morning. I knew that all along, so my faked surprise did not fool her. “I know that”-, I said slowly, as slowly as you can say one syllable word.
We met like best friends and we parted like best friends, do not ask how we did that, our story lacks a plot, it is an illusion but it makes a warm memory. And we both are good at balancing.
They were unable to retrieve their steps because their footprints had been washed away by the sea. In vain they tried to look for at least some marks on the sand among the little polished stones, pieces of glass which the sea as a skilled jeweler had turned into precious stones and shells. The narrow wet passage by the sea was empty, no footprints, nothing to retrieve.
I wanted to help them as from where I was standing I could see what they were looking for but I was not sure I should do it. I just looked and sailed through the sky, gliding on warm waves of the wind. Sliding from one cloud to another being mesmerized by the hot air balloons in the air. They were so sure about their course and about the way where they were going, having no idea what the wind is like. How gentle and cruel it can be, how merciful and merciless, how pleasant and violent. They had no idea about what they did not know.
I look at the sandy dunes in the horizon and they are blurred with the sand that the wind is carrying from place to place, creating and recreating the scenery, scratching out the footprints in the dry sand like a crossword puzzle and rising the waves to erase what he cannot reach.
I see a little girl’s hat flying in the air, I know in about a minute her cry carried by the wind would be heard by everyone. She does not cry, she looks as the hat flying into the air, white, light hat with a red flower and a red ribbon. She stands there looking after it and I do not see a look of something lost in her eyes.
– Look, Mommy, the wind likes my hat, it is trying it on. Silly wind, it does not know how to wear it. Let me show, – she yells and starts doing the putting on a hat motion, – Like this and the ribbon should be at the back. Her mom laughs, the girl laughs, I laugh.
A couple is walking hand in hand, she is carrying a light scarf and the wind is tearing at it trying to snatch this light, sweet moment but they hold the scarf together in their locked hands and the wind is powerless, the scarf is floating in the breeze and it is the prettiest picture I have seen in a while and I spend too much time looking at it even for my taste.
I see pages of the old newspaper flying, looking for someone to read them, the rain will pin them down and read what happened while it was gone, to catch up, to washed away the ink and make the news soggy and blurred, that happens anyway with every passing day. Exciting now, blurred a minute later.
The only problem is that I cannot look up, more clouds and sun rays and clouds up there, more space to glide through, more air.
There are no more people to observe, the wind is playing no more games as well and just gliding by my side. We are the best buddies today but not always. It is impossible to be friendly all the time with someone who is so forceful and moody but try to be friends with the sea! It is a constant tug of war of interests and choices, arguments over colours, shapes and attitudes. It is so violent at times that I do not want to have friends anymore but we both know we are lonelier than an average being, much older and lonelier and we have to stick together even if we have to stick with blood.
Time to go home. I see that little girl with her mother walking back and the couple has disappeared into the sunset, the newspaper found its place holding on to the ruins of the abandoned sand castle. No more people, just me and the wind and the sea to separate us.
Sometimes I think it’s like I live in a big giant head on a hilltop
made of papier mache, a big giant head of my own head.
I polish the eyes which would be windows, or
mow the lawn, I mean this is my house we’re talking about here
even if it is a big giant papier mache head that looks just like mine.
And people who go past
in cars or buses or see the house the head on the hill from trains
they think the house is me.
I’ll be sleeping there, or polishing the eyes, or weeding the lawn,
but no-one will see me, no-one would look.
And no-one would ever come. And if I waved no-one even knows it was me waving.
They’d all be looking in the wrong place, at the head on the hill.
I can see your house from here.
Neil Gaiman http://journal.neilgaiman.com/
Shuffling a pack of cards with only one card in it http://poptsar.blogspot.com/2013/04/all-living-all-our-sins-same.html
You are probably not going to read this story if it is just a white page, is it even possible to read a blank page? Whenever a blank page is staring at me I cannot hold its stare, I feel like looking away or writing something on it, so it does not stare at me with its blank challenging intensity.
What do you see in the black colour? I see hope ,no one sees hope in black but I do. It is a hope for a light blue morning after the dark night, for a drop of milk in your black coffee, red brooch on your black dress, yellow hat on a black cab and white paper with black letters printed on it. It is a hope for black and white that keeps us going.
We like security but we hate predictability, we like to fit in but we want to stand out. I took a photography class trying to make something of my life last year and ended up with 400 photographs neatly stacked in the box. Most of them were streets and people passing by.
I sometimes flip through these pictures just for the fun of it, to see something I have not noticed before and maybe go back to photography again. So far no luck, they still seem black and white prints of a person who sees a lot but cannot capture it and explain it.
There is a man looking at his dog and the dog looking back, they are definitely having an understanding but about what? There is a couple on the bench, the guy is leaning on the girls shoulder when I saw that I immediately came up with the idea but on the picture it looks like the are both tired and just leaning on each other. Here is a picture of a cat sitting in the sun and flowers on the windows and clouds in the sky and so many more.
I take the pictures out of the box and put them on my wall, in random order.. sky, flowers, cats, people, food and buses, smoking kid of about 7, girl with a big teddy bear, woman with a shopping bag. Together somehow they look more natural, not even black and white anymore, they tell a story of the everyday life. I take a picture of the whole wall, with all the pictures at once, I take one more and one more and many more.
After the film has been developed, I look through the pictures with the same hope of capturing a moment. They lack focus, the still lack the story, they look nothing like a tale of the city on the wall made with small pieces. I have failed again. I pack them in the box and dream in black and white all night. I wake up with the a thought in my head that my fingers have become fat, I look at my hand, they are still the same, long and slender. I make coffee and take my camera again. Still life today http://poptsar.blogspot.com/2012/08/did-you-ever-believe.html
Cleaning autumn leaves is like cleaning after the party – summer garden party; colorful straws, popped balloons, plastic packaging, cups, knives, glitters from summer dresses, a bow tie from someone’s fancy party costume. A lot of summer colours mixed with autumn background radiate energy somewhat unknown to me, unexplored, a bit unreal.
I look around and see only trees, shedding their colorful leaves on the ground, they have been doing it for years, party all summer long and then take off their clothes and throw them around, not that it does not look beautiful, it is a party of its own. A burlesque where you have only 5 minutes to change between the shows, a concert where you play different instruments, a multitasking job. it is like traveling, like writing an exam. How come autumn can be compared to everything?! There is something so eternal and basic in it that all activities have. Thinking more so. Thoughts have this peculiarity of coming together, in groups, in pairs, through associations. Being alone in the city is not truly alone after all.
I can find a lot about myself on the run.
I have trouble following receipts when I cook and I cannot read comic books. In my next life I am going to be a mountain, in my previous life and 6 lives before I was a cat. I do not like to be in someone else’s shoes even if they are made of crystal. Red is my favorite colour and I believe wolves are friendly.
I look at the city and the city looks back, if I ask,it will answer, if I am lost, it will help me to find myself. Aren’t these good reassuring thoughts?! Doesn’t it make you feel like a part of the ball where being you is an invitation, where walking alone in the city does not mean you are lonely, where meeting strangers is meeting friends, where autumn looks never ending. It is funny how after -the – party can become an after party, that’s a good thought indeed!
“We enter a little coffeehouse with a friend of mine and give our order. While we’re approaching our table two people come in and they go to the counter –
‘Five coffees, please. Two of them for us and three suspended’
They pay for their order, take the two and leave. I ask my friend:
‘What are those ‘suspended’ coffees ?’
‘Wait for it and you will see’
Some more people enter. Two girls ask for one coffee each, pay and go. The next order was for seven coffees and it was made by three lawyers – three for them and four ‘suspended’. While I still wonder what’s the deal with those ‘suspended’ coffees I enjoy the sunny weather and the beautiful view towards the square in front of the café. Suddenly a man dressed in shabby clothes who looks like a beggar comes in through the door and kindly asks
‘Do you have a suspended coffee ?’
It’s simple – people pay in advance for a coffee meant for someone who can not afford a warm beverage. The tradition with the suspended coffees started in Naples, but it has spread all over the world and in some places you can order not only a suspended coffee, but also a sandwich or a whole meal.”
I am not sure how my stories appear, I am pretty sure I bookmarked them a while ago and now it is just a matter of finding the right page.
Time trickled into a puddle of hours. I did not keep track as it was more important to keep the beat http://poptsar.blogspot.com/2012/01/we-dont-bleed-when-we-dont-fight.html
Everywhere it is different, everywhere it is that same, time is the only resources that has been equally given to all of us.
Today morning smells like Paris. A very classical morning, I would say, no matter where I am. Being among foreigners does not mean being among stramgers anymore. We have been joikcing how places are turing more and more into McDonalc’s wherever you go, you feel like you know this place, either because of your enthusiatic mindset, love for adventure or just travelling makes the world smaller. It is like drawing a map of the world on a balloon, it seems so big, which far away places but the you let the air out and all the places are close to each other andt there is not much space anymore at all.
– Can you sing?
This is what happens when you come to random job interviews you know nothing about.
- Tell me something about yourself.
-I have trouble following receipts when I cook and I cannot read comic books. In my next life I am going to be a mountain, in my previous life and 6 lives before I was a cat. I do not like to be in someone else’s shoes even if they are made of crystal. Red is my favorite colour and I believe wolves are friendly.
- What do you do?
- I am a photographer, writer and I like cleaning autumn leaves.
- I understand why you are looking for a job.
- Why do you like photograhpy?
- I this black is a colour of hope.
- Why do you like writing?
- I am afraid of blank pages.
- Should I even ask you about the autumn leaves. Let’s consider it as a hobby.
- A hobby I get paid for the most.
- Very well, I have a yacht, it is the same. So, are you a good singer?
- No, I do not sing, not in front of people. I mean I had music at school and I never sang anywhere. I sing in the shower, I suppose like everyone else.
- Sing something, would you?
What a ridiculous job interview.
- Salut, c’est encore moi
Salut, comment tu vas?
Le temps m’a paru très long
Loin de la maison j’ai pensé à toi
Was that something you had in mind,? I am not a singer…
- Here everyone sings – my cleaner, my gardener, I hire people who sing and they can go about their work singing, don’t you think it is the best of ideas?!
- I did not know you needed a singer, I was thinking more along the lines of organizing your papers and giving them some shape; research, articles maybe a book about…
- They say in our day and age young people are supposed to do everything, the job requirements are high and you are supposed to be good at many things and know even more. Are you wiling to learn?
- Do you like circus?
- Answering a question to a question is not a good interview tacktic but since we broke so mane rules already… yes, I like circus.
- I am willing to learn.
Like Shaherezade who found herself in Great Expectations, I went home to pack my bag and move to live with this lady who has singing gardeners and yachts. She looked a bit like Norma Desman which got me worried but then again we all have our fads and fancies.
It was a beginning of beautiful friendship or just an illusion of an old agreeable romantic lady who is going to grow more sour and demanding and dissatisfied with everything I do, I was not sure but I was happy I was back and I could smell was fresh spring in the air that mixed with great expectations that could not go wrong and I inhaled an kept on walking.
It was a sunny morning that promised a carefree day of games when Tom opened his eyes. He
could already feel the smell of hot chocolate wafting through the air and it meant that dad left for
work and mom was in the kitchen. Tom could not wait to gulp hot chocolate and run to play with
Jim, Kevin, Lisa and Zoye.
Tom was the oldest of the group being almost 6 whereas other were 5 and a half or 5 and a
few days, ages that are important for kids to differentiate between.
Tim and Kevin lived in the same house on different floors. Lisa wearing in a pink dress which all
girls called too pink but secretly admired was organized and neat. Zoye defied everything Lisa
stood for especially pink. She climbed trees and was keen on learning how to spit as accurately
They would meet together on a “ship” as they called it. A wooden construction that used to look
like a ship only now faded in the sun, was a bit rotten after the long winter and had some parts
of it eaten by ants. A perfect place for a group like this because a ship always meant adventure.
- What are we doing today? – asked Zoye.
- Not what you always do – said Lisa sourly.
- It is your choice, you do not have to join.
- I do not want to join for a reason. My parents were discussing how what you do now can help
you in the future. Then I could not understand what it was exactly about but now I see, you Zoey
can spit very accurately today but what are you going to do with it in the future?
That did not pose any challenge for Zoey as she knew exactly what she wanted to do.
– I will be the best at spitting and win a competition.
Jim and Kevin were running towards the “ship” now, Jim was carrying a balloon.
- Lisa would like it – pink, – grinned Jim.
- I would rather give it to Zoey, she would pop it and come up with something, – said Kevin.
Tom, sandwich in hand, did not want to be late and ran after the boys.
- My mom wanted me to stay and eat but I had to get away, adults do not see how important
time is, they are bad multitaskers.
- Multitaskers? – asked Kevin.
- Liza knows, – volunteered Zoey.
- As a matter of fact I do, this is something my parents mentioned as well, my dad said that he is
going to hire only multitaskers.- It is simply running and eating, – said Tom.
- Hey, you have not heard what Lisa told me, if I spit well today I will do well in the future.
- That’s not what I meant, Zoey.
Tom was listening and thinking that future was pretty much set. I know what the day will bring;
parents, games and hot chocolate, school and friends.
- What do you mean tomorrow? – asked Tom, – like far into the future, when we will all be living
on another planet or maybe not at all. You heard about all the ice melting.
- That’s because of the cows and planes, – said Zoey.
The group did not look convinced but they did not pursue the topic because they felt that was
what adults did, sometimes they just stopped the conversation and moved on to a different
- The future is what and who we will be there. Like teachers, doctors and artists.
What will we be or what the future will be once we are there, thought Tom but he did not say
- I think we should talk about future today, I will ask my parents more about it all, ice melting and
multitasking, – said Liza.
- It is no use to ask adults, – said Zoye, – it is better to see for yourself what is what. If my mom
knew I like climbing trees, she would say, you will grow out of it but I want to be a tightrope
walker and travel with a circus without borders.
Tom felt a bit scared that the future can be so uncertain, he looked at the balloon Jim was
- Why do you have a balloon, Jim?
– Let’s set it free, I hope the wind will pick it up and it will fly like a hot air balloon or a zeppelin
- said Jim.
It did, with children’s’ eyes fixed on the balloon rising above the trees,rooftops and electric
cords that lined up the sky and then even higher with the future tied to it.