" The Red Balloon"
A young boy carries a red balloon as he walks through the streets of Prague, the blood red of the balloon contrasts against all the grey and fog of the city. Nobody accepts his offer as he tries to hand the balloon to others, “where is your mother?” they ask him instead. I am watching this movie right now as I erase half of what I type.
Yesterday I saw “The Maltese Falcon” with Dad and my sister. Yesterday Beaufort made me weak; I think it was something that the wind carried, some type of pollen maybe. Beaufort has made me nostalgic, as usual, because there is not enough past in here, and I keep thinking about the things we left inside boxes back in Argentina: my old gymnastics leotards and my books in spanish, my junk, the journals I wrote in when I was seventeen and discovering the city. It is like what my sister said to me last night, “I believe in Biography,” and this is why items are valuable: because they give us our memory back, and not the other way around, not the other way around, and without objects we are incomplete and nostalgic, we are how I feel every day.
I will write a story about objects robbing a man from his memory. I will write it after studying for one of my dull college classes I hate waking up every morning to attend.
Today I ran two miles again, but there was so much wind against me. Sorry I haven’t been writing over here, journal. It is because every time I do, my writing becomes this: a pseudo Freudian analysis session with myself.
Also, why am I hungry again? I just had dinner.
Yesterday I saw “The Maltese Falcon” with Dad and my sister. Yesterday Beaufort made me weak; I think it was something that the wind carried, some type of pollen maybe. Beaufort has made me nostalgic, as usual, because there is not enough past in here, and I keep thinking about the things we left inside boxes back in Argentina: my old gymnastics leotards and my books in spanish, my junk, the journals I wrote in when I was seventeen and discovering the city. It is like what my sister said to me last night, “I believe in Biography,” and this is why items are valuable: because they give us our memory back, and not the other way around, not the other way around, and without objects we are incomplete and nostalgic, we are how I feel every day.
I will write a story about objects robbing a man from his memory. I will write it after studying for one of my dull college classes I hate waking up every morning to attend.
Today I ran two miles again, but there was so much wind against me. Sorry I haven’t been writing over here, journal. It is because every time I do, my writing becomes this: a pseudo Freudian analysis session with myself.
Also, why am I hungry again? I just had dinner.