<p>The art of writing holds beauty in every aspect. For some, it is the way the pen scratches the paper; for others, it is how the keyboard clacks and every metaphor that is being said. For me, it took a while to discover what it really was. An idea sparks in my mind, like balloons slipping from my hands. It comes so fast that I must chase it down and catch the idea before it disappears. Once caught, I examine every detail, every imperfection, and every hidden nuance—even the pores that lay beneath its skin. </p>.Purpose of life on a plantain leaf .<p>The difference in my writing is the fact that I don’t write about the balloons’ bright colours or the way their patterns spiral around them. I write about their imperfections that hide a deeper form of beauty. A beauty that others can’t see at first glance. To me, that is the dual nature of writing—complexity driven by passion. Art that only a writer can see. A writer, to me, is a reader with a strong perception of the tragedies revealed by reality. But you need to understand that it doesn’t always work. </p>.<p>No matter how easily you can grasp the balloon or how well you can inflate it to perfection, it won’t always end well. I have spotted balloons floating in the sky. Floating so high in the sky, they taunt me with their elusiveness. It laughs at how far I am from the strings that dance gracefully between the clouds. Sometimes I manage to reach it. I pull onto the string, bringing it towards me. But it drifts away slowly, caressing my fingers as it does so. </p>.<p>Despite this, I persist. I sit there, arms over my legs. Head over my knees. I shrivel up and rest my eyes, hoping that there will soon be another balloon tapping my shoulder. I have built a tower, a tower of previous ideas, as if it were a monument to my determination. A tower of pens and pencils stacked upon each other. Determined, I extend my arm far above. </p>.<p>My fingers dangling in the air, just within reach of the glowing orb. And alas, I grabbed it. I tug at it strongly. I grab it tight with my fingers wrapped around each other. Now all I have to do is climb down the tower with the balloon in victory. But today feels different. Today I stand at the edge of the tower with the balloons swaying side to side. I lift my feet off the ground and allow the balloon to carry me. To carry me into a world where the balloons come to me, or perhaps I simply let it go.</p>.<p><em>(The writer is a Class 10 student)</em></p>
<p>The art of writing holds beauty in every aspect. For some, it is the way the pen scratches the paper; for others, it is how the keyboard clacks and every metaphor that is being said. For me, it took a while to discover what it really was. An idea sparks in my mind, like balloons slipping from my hands. It comes so fast that I must chase it down and catch the idea before it disappears. Once caught, I examine every detail, every imperfection, and every hidden nuance—even the pores that lay beneath its skin. </p>.Purpose of life on a plantain leaf .<p>The difference in my writing is the fact that I don’t write about the balloons’ bright colours or the way their patterns spiral around them. I write about their imperfections that hide a deeper form of beauty. A beauty that others can’t see at first glance. To me, that is the dual nature of writing—complexity driven by passion. Art that only a writer can see. A writer, to me, is a reader with a strong perception of the tragedies revealed by reality. But you need to understand that it doesn’t always work. </p>.<p>No matter how easily you can grasp the balloon or how well you can inflate it to perfection, it won’t always end well. I have spotted balloons floating in the sky. Floating so high in the sky, they taunt me with their elusiveness. It laughs at how far I am from the strings that dance gracefully between the clouds. Sometimes I manage to reach it. I pull onto the string, bringing it towards me. But it drifts away slowly, caressing my fingers as it does so. </p>.<p>Despite this, I persist. I sit there, arms over my legs. Head over my knees. I shrivel up and rest my eyes, hoping that there will soon be another balloon tapping my shoulder. I have built a tower, a tower of previous ideas, as if it were a monument to my determination. A tower of pens and pencils stacked upon each other. Determined, I extend my arm far above. </p>.<p>My fingers dangling in the air, just within reach of the glowing orb. And alas, I grabbed it. I tug at it strongly. I grab it tight with my fingers wrapped around each other. Now all I have to do is climb down the tower with the balloon in victory. But today feels different. Today I stand at the edge of the tower with the balloons swaying side to side. I lift my feet off the ground and allow the balloon to carry me. To carry me into a world where the balloons come to me, or perhaps I simply let it go.</p>.<p><em>(The writer is a Class 10 student)</em></p>
