Balloon, see the balloon, see thoughts float through space, meander through the mind; wild thoughts, drifting thoughts, blue thoughts, white thoughts, read thoughts, thoughts arriving unannounced, uninvited, unaware of the current climate, thoughts that rise like balloons on silent streets, on sleepy Sundays in the suburbs, to the south of her centre, where it’s slow to shock and surprise, though if no one ever sees it, was it ever really there? Thoughts float through time, suggestions, signs from unconscious minds, disruptive thoughts, distracting thoughts; I held his hand in a taxi while thinking of another and then came back but he was gone or I had changed or the memory was never a true account of the reality, maybe he’d held mine. Thoughts trickle as I float through strange streets, mounting Montsouris and its misplaced meridian on a Sunday, drawing conclusions of held hands next to monuments out of line, drawing on inspiration wherever necessary, wherever noticed; see the balloon! Thoughts float like balloons, like bodies, like taxis, never knowing if it’s a considered curve or just a current we’re caught in and if it cannot be captured, can it ever be caressed? If I leave will I be remembered, if I run will I be missed, if I come back, could it all have been a dream before? They thought this was the centre once, drew lines to draw them back to where positions could be measured, redrew them later when location fell from their favour. Thoughts float like balloons though the air, oxidising, fuelling, thinking, thoughts float, fragile and free, some never to be caught, some never to be caressed. Thoughts fade; even the marker on this monument has been ground down, thoughts float; balloons blow and then burst, roads lead out and to reverse is not to replay. Capture me, it, them, all, everything before I, we, it, all fade, before I, we, it, all burst. Balloon, see the balloon, see the being, see the beginning, see the beginning of something bright, even on silent streets, in the sleepy suburbs, on Sundays, south of all that seemed, once upon a time, to be central, see it all, where simple things can shine. See it all now, here, on front, before it bursts.
All Words and Photographs by Damien B. Donnelly