Descriptive Writing

HOT AIR BALLOON

It’s  cold. Very cold. And I am a snowman without a scarf. I stand very still. Excitement twists with apprehension and fills my heart. Before me, the glossy green grass stretches itself over the dirt, as if it’s ready to sun-bake. My knuckles, as white as snow, grip desperately to the huge wicker basket in which I stand. If I look up, the glorious glow of the burner stretches it’s neck into the round opening of the giant balloon. It’s bloated with air, the rainbow stripes strained at the seams. Slowly, the basket lifts off the ground. My breathing rushes to catch itself as we float high above Yarra Valley.

The balloon hesitantly glides up the cloud ladder. My feet, once unsteadly, find their place in this new found environment. The burner continues to roar in my ears, and I lift my fingertips from the smooth, icy basket and sweap them through this thin air. As I draw patterns, I suddenly notice how high I am. I’m soaring, flying, gossiping with the clouds. That’s when I know, that I love it up here.

When I gaze down at the world below, I am struck with it’s perfection. There are sheep in paddocks, like tiny grains of rice left on a bright green plate. And i’d never realised before how many shades of green the world could be. It seems like without fences, the fields would all bleed together in one big mess of green food dye. When I twist my head, I see perfectly pointed mountains. Mist floods between them, racing to be the first one to jump into the steady stream of water that bows down at the mountains’ feet. Nobody can touch or taint this perfect landscape. The wide open spaces, the natural monuments. Being in the air, in this giant balloon, is the place I love.

As we continue to soar, the balloon bobs, and I draw in shallow, gasping breaths. It feels like trying to push a square through a triangle. And when I stare down, reality slaps me in the face. We are just paper planes on a huge paper planet. This earth is so fragile – a perfect paradise. There is not a loose thread in this seam, not one single spec of dirt on these white tiles. Everything is pristine from up here. But this sets my mind spinning. This flawless view is just a metaphor for outward appereances. For I know that life is full of mixed emotion. Not only laughter and happiness, but pain and drama too.

But I push these intruding thoughts away. This is my heaven – nothing can ruin that. So instead  I concentrate on the roaring of the burner and the chirp of early birds in my ears. I taste the icy air, and feel the smooth wicker entwined into a basket beneath my fingertips. I smell the intoxicating gas, and sweep my eyes across endless blue skies and wide green fields. Being up this high makes me feel dreamy and delightful, and I realize that this world is full of possibility.

All too soon, we have to land. We drop gradually, as if a puppeteer has taken hold of our strings, and lives. My body may be falling from the clouds, but my heart stays up there with it’s new found love. And then THUMP! I hit the ground, and real life hits me. I am no longer a bird in my perfect paradise. I am now just another paper plane in this world.

Ainur Shafiqa