Balloons

One lunchtime, squinting through a bad night's sleep, I saw three kids in graffiti-coloured clothes. That rainbow shone through the rest of my day. 

A homeless man convincingly told me he was educated at Eton College. 

A grey and burgundy sports car vanished into the quieter, stiller grey. Its colour seemed to match the season. 

A girl I actually kind of like told me with enthusiasm about the date she’s going on later in the week. It gutted me. 

Sitting in a rich street, a skinny old man who looks homeless plays Sympathy for the Devil through a portable speaker next to him, and with vigour and two spoons rattles out its rhythm across his bones. He gives me the widest toothless grin. It's the best thing I’ve seen in ages. 

The sky, pulsing like the opposite of a headache. 

That pigeon, cruising in. A red kite, soaring. 

Those pink flowers. 

That dog-whisperer, flipping a disobedient German Shepherd on its back and locking it there until it gets it.

That woman, smoking. 

An older couple with linked arms. 

This anxiety that's ravaged me of late. It wants me to do everything; count the infinite components of a second. 

And that kid,

limb by clumsy limb, clambering upright in his chair, 

then raising victorious fists and slowly turning on unsteady legs, and beaming, 

beaming at the world 

like a newly-ascended king. 

I am alive 

in the only life I believe I'll ever have. 

All balloons, venturing upwards. 

I'm gulped up by the sky.