The String.

The String.

There stands a boy named Beau, with a string tightly wrapped around his finger. He clasps the string with no annotations, but on that string floating above his head, there it is a balloon, air filled trapped inside rubber coating.
The last breath of a man.
Beau, at aged five, his little mind didn’t think much about his new beginnings or past lived reasons, his string was tightly around his finger and he held it up with ease. The eyes of a five year didn’t worry about his future triumphs, tragedies and heartfelt loves. His balloon was there it represented his rise and soon his fall.

It was like a dicpictured memory that was onces his self in his fathers head, a glimpse of solitude resurfaced, but as the balloon stood still, Beau reminisced about what was to lie ahead, in a five year old boys mind, hope can float away like the balloon in Beau’s hand. 
He releases the string and the balloon floats away riding with the wind.

Beau looks up to the balloon on a string and watches it as it leaves his sight, then he looks down to his finger where the string was once tied, he thinks to himself in wide eyed wonder, then shakes his head, goes to his bathroom mirror and takes a good hard look at himself.

Beau, the five year old boy is now a reflection of who he used to be and bow reflecting back an old man.

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