Here is a red balloon, I think of you and let it go.

I know it's not supposed to be easy. But is it supposed to be this hard?

Sad, sad balloons that are limply dragged by capricious throws of sweet summer breeze. Bright colours that look out of place, strung on ribbons left over from christmas. Hanging on a stop sign, slowly and unnoticeably deflating. One last exhale. Balloons that once mimicked the ears on rabbits and the blades on swords. That once took the form of a child's favourite creature, and much like the creature, will wither into wrinkled skin and unnatural colours. It will empty of air and life. It will die.

I grow attached to these things. These things that may have never had life outside of my imagination. I received a cat forged from purple balloons, from a clown at Olive Garden. It had a long winding tail, and I held it close for the few days it retained it's feline shape. But I noticed it grew weaker. Losing the form it once had. It was dying. And as it died, and the plastic grew less tight around the air locked within, I lay beside it, as it sat in my shut dresser drawer, and I cried. I did not open that drawer for years. Something died there. Something I could not revive. It was out of my control. And that felt sickly.

I will not use soap shaped like animals. Or overuse my favourite pen in fear of it running out. I will dry roses that are given to me, and not put my most loved christmas ornaments on the tree, in case they fall and shatter. Everything has life. And, for some reason, I feel obligated to protect it.

I will never receive another balloon animal again. Balloons make me sad.

Why must everything die?