Balloons

      Sometimes I obsess. About all sorts of things. Food, people, my shortcomings, my failures, my body, my face, aging, the color of the walls, my patio table, weeds, the internets, shopping, money, you know, stuff. Mostly things I perceive as negative, wrong, off, or broken. I think about how to fix them and feel sad they are broken. I hate it a ten. If I could snip that cord in my brain, I would. Unplug it. Dowse it. Wash it away. Burn it down. Stomp it out. Or gently tie it to a hot air balloon and let it float away.
      It is important to be aware of these things, is it not? When I become aware of my next obsessive thought maybe I will imagine tying it to a hot air balloon and watching it float away. I will imagine my neighbor Jim across the street, taking a break from blowing his leaves around his yard and leaning on his fence, taking a drag off his cigarette and watching the hot air balloons floating up through the roof of my house, into the blue sky, his face set in concentration, squinting. I don't know anything about Jim. He is old, he likes to work on his yard. We smile and wave at each other. He smokes. He has a wife inside his house. For some reason, I think he would not be phased by hot air balloons rising off my house like seeds blown off a dandelion. They would come in bursts. A series of balloons. Then nothing. Maybe sometimes a steady stream like a bubble machine. Bloop bloop bloopbloopbloop. Bloop bloop. Bloop.
      Be gone, balloons. Blow high and away into outer space and splinter apart. Let the splinters float and tumble and burst into tiny clouds of dust. And the dust will dissipate then disappear, with a sigh.
      I will try.