Still, every early summer a balloon festival for kids takes place in my home town. The postcards at the end of each string refers to a young addressee and asks for them to be returned in a dear, recently learned handwriting. At the beginning of each summer, I, too, said goodbye to a helium-filled, red balloon in the blue sky with childlike anticipation. I never got an answer.
Covid times. The pandemic lets us withdraw into weightlessness. What happens in the meantime is an up and down for our minds and the moment of "being able to fly again" is a moment too long in coming. Today I am still fascinated by the uncertainty of landing and floating. The winds and gravity act on the light missile and open up a state for which humans have chosen a simple word: chance.
When will my balloon land/ fly?