There is a hot air balloon, adrift in the wind, with whom I feel a sort of comfort. Her hue of bright, pigmented colors remind me of the colors that I see when I chase beyond the horizon. The hot air balloon herself radiates a resilient strength, solidifying, in the midst of gusty winds. Her powerful build works, works somehow, works miraculously, to keep her a float and me mesmerized. Her imperturbability in the uncertain sail of the wind taunts me, steers me, to follow in her path. The mouth itself is molded in a teardrop shape, connecting pink and blue to yellow, in an image where there is seen, what I would have thought, a gleam of her radiants embellished on the horizon. Yet above her, individualistic and optimistic, are an infinite amount of balloons that soar above her successes. 

The balloons appear to be devoted scholars, those “stars of the class” who dedicate their lives to obtain academic validation, and eventually collapse under the heat of their own pressure. Their faces display a glimpse of stress, many hours strayed and full of sorrow. Two broken esteems, self and social. Yet, they project “the” student that I implore myself to be.

Balloon residue dropped from the darkness of yesterday, shrunken from the pressure and left to plummet. I must have been mesmerized by its descent, or maybe I was fascinated by the eruption of its despairing life. But then, I saw it. A flamboyant balloon, with a vibrant orange pigment, not cleaving from the pressure, but rather struck with defeat, 

flamed, 

frazzled, 

fried,

within minutes. Her determination shriveled up like the death of a flower, enlarging the dignity of the fire and slowly diminishing the courage she was meant to ignite. At once the flame blasted again. The last of her remains evanesced into a sombered, smothered smoke. At the same time, her vibrance 

curled, 

blackened, 

and ceased, 

fading fully. 

Her final scheme jerked in the draft, dancing in a whistle as she trailed upward into the decaying speckled sky. When it was all over, her essence was, far, so far I can determine gone, gone as she bleed into the hue of the horizon. Had she just begun her wandering to the stars? Had she completed her desire to become the “star” student, had she done it all? All that was left was her lively spirit dispersed through the sky as the sun glowed into the horizon. 

I think I know balloons, devoted balloons, wanderlust balloons, pantomath balloons and the remains of utterly lost balloons. That is why I believe that those devoted balloons are lost in the midst of finding their self worth. How many of you, I asked my fellow peers, are willing to conform to the image of a devoted scholar? I was trembling from the questions spinning in my mind, or my insomnia, or because of the bewilderment dispersed across my peers' faces. (I have many desires I want to accomplish in life, don’t I? And all these dreams I wish upon the lingering of the day, to check off. I think about my aspirations as I venture into the world of books, the minds and souls echoing through the lonely, hushed dorm hall. The mind of myself. The drowning of questions like, Why not me? Why am I not seen as a devoted student? I do not want to be. But why am I needed to be?) All of their mouths moved in a collective “obviously” as if all of them are not already replenishing society's drought. Why do I want them to see the damages they are perpetrating onto themselves? I tried to explain to them what their choice must entail: You will lose yourself in the midst of the journey. You must chase towards the horizon, not the stars… They had no idea what I was trying to convey. They thought I was too impulsive with the ways I want to experience life. It’s just as well.