I rake my eyes about the room in attempt to glean inspiration to write, an exercise suggested to me by Kitty. Recently I’ve been trawling through my tattered tome of Japanese haikus for some idea – some emotion – with no joy.
However, as I study the space intensely I notice a cluster of multi-coloured balloons climbing the corner of my desk. Kitty recommended that I store them there in case Theo comes in to play. One, baby pink, is shrivelled on the ground beneath the rest; it must have a hole in it somewhere. Theo and I keep taking it in turns to blow it up as large as we can before all the air flows out of it. So far Kit, with her Tardis-like lungs, beat us both into second and third during the one event that she competed. Imagine how enormous we could get it if we could all blow at once I wonder.
Inadvertently, I experience a sort of eureka moment – the kind that you get when inspiration strikes. The idea is a little random but I jot it down anyway:
A punctured balloon Can still be reflated if You’ve got enough breath
And, together, I guess we have.