I'm not quite sure what this is about.... but here goes anyway.

Success is the name of the game of life.  That's what we all want, isn't it?  To succeed, to make something of ourselves.  To be the best of the best.  Because apparently, just doing your best isn't enough anymore.  Oh, no--you have to be the best.  Yoda had it right: "Do or do not.  There is no try."  And there is no try in this world.  No one really cares if you try your best but fail anyway.  It's all about getting things right the first time, or working at whatever it is until you do.  It doesn't matter much if you work at something you don't understand, but still don't understand it afterwards.  

Don't you wish that it was okay to fail sometimes?  Don't you wish that it wasn't the end of the world if you weren't perfect?  Or perhaps these things are true, and you simply don't realize it.  Perhaps it's only about dreaming bigger every time.  You can't fail every time--sooner or later, you'll succeed.  I suppose that's what's supposed to happen.  You fail, then you fail bigger, and then you might fail even bigger, but at some point, you'll succeed the biggest.  Atrocious grammar aside, that's the game of life.  You lose a lot of the time, but eventually?  You'll find what you're searching for.  It's just a matter of looking in the right places.

I wish...

that when people got mad at you, they'd take it up with you personally, instead of complaining to everyone except you. I wish that when little issues came up, people would tell you instead of telling everyone else all your faults. I wish people understood just how important it is to communicate. I know that putting your feelings into words can be impossibly difficult--believe me, I've been there. But please, realize that by speaking your mind now, you'll save having to deal with the wondering and what-ifs in the aftermath of an argument. You'll know that you put your cards on the table and spoke the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. And you'll know that sometimes, the truth hurts. But lies hurt even more, don't they?

Limitless.

I want to master the art of words. 

I want to make you feel.  To think deep thoughts, to dream grand dreams, to smile and laugh and cry all at once. Such is the power of words.  They can touch your heart, if only for a moment. 

They take you places. Places where you've never been before--places you've never dreamed of before. They tell you of things that might happen today, tomorrow, or only in your wildest dreams. They are the doorway to the lands beyond imagining. 

Words can heal your heart or break it. They can make you laugh, or make you cry. They can be twisted, turned, pulled, bent out of shape, and misused. They can be honest or misleading, sharp or sweet. Your words are not always who you are. They are a cover-up for your flaws and for your fears. 

Words are beautiful. Powerful. Terrible.  Words are foundations and weapons, the solid bricks and the sharpened steel of our world. Without them, there would be no tomorrows worth having. Without them, today would not shine nearly as brightly as it does now. For the masters of words, there are no limits. 

The Balloon Man

Okay, so the title needs a little work. But anyways, I hope you enjoy this story. I'd really love to hear any feedback you might have, and thanks for reading!

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On the corner of Broadway and 27th stands a wizened old man.  His gnarled hands are wrapped around the wooden handle of an old cart, and a faded brown felt hat is planted firmly on his head.  But the important thing is the balloons. A giant flock of balloons rising to the sky in a flurry of translucent wings, tethered to the cart by shimmering plastic threads. The rainbow shadows they cast on the sidewalk dance merrily every time the wind blows. 

A little boy with black hair, wearing a rumpled red shirt, stands across the street.  As he eyes the balloons longingly, he tilts his head side to side as if weighing an important decision. His eyes light up for a second, as he nods, satisfied with himself. 

And then in a blur of red and black, he darts across the stone-paved street to the balloon cart. He swipes at the string of a red balloon as he passes the cart, running as fast as he can. The old balloon man watches through sleepy eyes, and it seems that the boy must surely escape. 

But the old man's hand whips out, grabbing the boy by the wrist and holding tight. The red balloon bobs back and forth on its string as the boy stumbles, yanked backwards.  

"Whaddya think yer doing?" the balloon man demands roughly.  "Nobody steals my balloons. If yeh've got money ter pay for it, the balloon is yers. Elsewise, yeh're comin' with me."

The boy stares at him, wide-eyed with fear. "I ain't got no money, sir," he says in a small voice. 

The balloon man says nothing, but begins to drag him along by the arm. Behind them, the balloon cart clatters noisily along the pavement.  

They walk and walk, and slowly the pleasant cottages and businesses are replaced by shabby buildings, the windows darkened by metal screens. 

"Mister, me mum'll wonder where I am," says the boy very quietly. 

The balloon man doesn't reply, just keeps walking. 

"Mister, I've gotta get home, it's gettin' dark," the boy says, a little louder. 

Still no reply, no sound at all but the clack of the cart on the stones of the sidewalk. 

"C'mon, mister, I'm sorry I tried to take the balloon," the boy begins. "I--"

"Well I'm sure yer sorry, now that I've caught yeh," interrupts the balloon man gruffly. "Now be quiet until we get to where we're goin'."

Dusk falls on the town, and the dim glow of street-lamps illuminates the streets. And still the boy and the balloon man walk, the cloud of balloons bobbing along behind them.  

The balloon man stops in front of a darkened house, and kicks down the stop of his cart.  "Sit down," he tells the boy, flipping on the porch light as he fumbles with his keys. 

The boy's curiosity has been awakened--he can't leave, not now that something's about to happen. So instead of running away as fast as he can, he obeys the old man and sits down on the stone curb. He kicks a stray pebble. He pulls a bit of string from his pocket and ties knots in it. He drums rhythms on the pavement with his fingertips.  

And then he looks longingly at the balloon cart. The red balloon that he had tried to take floats a little higher than the others, its string hastily tied to the handle of the cart. 

It would be so easy to take it and run... The balloon man was old. He'd never catch up. But still, the balloon man had also trusted him not to take anything...

The little boy makes up his mind. It is truly dark now, and the man obviously isn't coming back outside--the lights in what appear to be the kitchen have been turned off, and a dim glow emanates from an upstairs window (the bedroom, perhaps). Had this been some kind of test?

"Thank you, sir!" he calls as he stands up to leave.  He runs off into the darkness, happy. 

***

Early the next morning, a stooped figure wearing a battered felt hat shuffles to the cart.  The old balloon man smiles a little to himself as he releases the single red balloon flying a little higher than the others. It floats up into the sky, the tiny bit of color soon vanishing among the clouds. 

I'm opinionated. Or anyways that's what I like to think.

I'm crazy. At least, that's true part of the time.

I'm searching for who I really am, and who I really want to be. That's true all of the time.

Who you are changes with the people you're with. I suppose that that's one of the uncomfortable truths of life. You are not the same person with your boss as you are with your friends, or with your teachers, or with your parents, or with random people you pass on the street. To each one of them, you present a different version of yourself. Perhaps some of the versions are quite similar--but nobody ever meets the exact same version of you.

People all have something to hide.

People are ever-changing, ever-thinking, so that the person that they are is the person you expect them to be.

If you ever meet someone who is completely genuine... value them. Treasure them, because they have learned what the rest of us cannot--the art of being themselves.

Because I grew up.

Every time I realize that I'll never be seen as a little kid again, I wish that things were different.

Every time I realize that in the world of childhood, limits don't even exist, my heart breaks a little. Sometimes I wish that I were very young again. I wish to be innocent and carefree and ridiculously happy.

Then I think back to when I truly was young, and I wonder why my greatest wish then was to grow up. You see, growing up isn't everything it seems. Grown-ups don't always have the answers. Grown-ups are not unfailingly perfect. Grown-ups try and try and try, but they fail and they wish they were young again because then it wouldn't matter that they failed.

But when you're young, you don't know any of that. To be a grown-up is to be free of the rules and limitations that come with being a kid. Growing up is the ticket to freedom. Only when it's too late do you realize that you were better off where you once were.

But you can never go back.

Erised.

Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi.

I show not your face but your heart's desire.

This has to be one of the most powerful sections in J.K. Rowling's Harry Potter series. This mirror, the Mirror of Erised, is the Mirror of Desire. It reflects the viewer's deepest desires, laying them out and playing their secret dreams on its glassy surface. This mirror sees more clearly than any human. It sees the heart and the heart's deepest desires alone.

Honestly, the rest of the world would do well to follow the initial actions of the mirror--to look not at a person's exterior, but at the inner chambers of their heart. Who are they, what do they value, what makes them them?

However, the mirror also creates a hold on the viewer so strong as to pull them from reality and into the dream-world of the fantasies of paradise and happiness that it creates. Here lies the danger--if you see a place where you could be utterly happy, wouldn't it be so much easier to simply stay there?

Reality is painful. Yet the only grim advantage that it has over the perfection of fantasy is that it is always, always undeniably present.