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Blowing and bursting, coming and going.

It's surprising how things turn out the way they do in the shortest span of time.

Like how a bubble bursts. It's this beautiful, mysterious entity of color and vibrance. They always make you want to look at them, hold them, and figure them out. The swirls and the shades are an invitation; they lure you in.

And just when your finger reaches out, finally gives in and touches it -- it's gone.

There wasn't anything close to the joy of blowing bubbles as a kid. Seeing them magically appear from the wand, chasing after hundreds of them, jumping up and down to pop them, and suddenly finding them all gone -- it was priceless. You never get tired of all the bubbles. You just keep blowing, chasing, popping again and again. It was always such a freeing experience.

But the first time I came really up close with a bubble was one time in first grade while washing my hands. I just discovered this trick of rubbing your hands together hard, then forming a circle with your index finger and thumb. (Yes, it was a new trick for me.) At first, it didn't occur to me that it was a bubble. Bubbles are supposed to be round after all, I thought. But then, suddenly I saw all these colors swooshing around like paint that spilled all over the floor in kindergarten art class. In it was a plethora of different shades all in motion. It was so fascinating. How did this enigma come to be?

And before I knew it, it burst.

The first few seconds were quite a shock. Where was it? Why did it go so suddenly? How did it happen? I was only seven then, with no background on physics and how the water molecules interacted with the soap to create this film and suddenly make it disappear.

Many times in my life I've come across beautiful mysterious bubbles. Sometimes a situation, other times a fact, and sometimes people. They always draw you in but just when you're about to start appreciating their florid intensity, you lose them. Not always physically, but yeah, at some point we just can't really bring them back.

I was washing my hands today after coming home (to the dorm) from school when this thought occured to me. Isn't it sad? I mean, why bother then if everything will be taken away from us anyway? Why touch it when it will eventually pop? Why reach out when it will inevitably disappear?

But then, the thing about bubbles is that it doesn't really matter if it pops. That's how bubbles are -- they come and go. But you can always rub your fingers again; you can always put the wand back in the bottle again and blow. There are always a thousand more bubbles to be made for every one that goes.

I guess life will always be unfair. It will give some and take some. It doesn't always end up the way you want it to. But then again, I never really stopped enjoying blowing bubbles as a kid even if they all pop and burst anyway. All I ever wanted in bubbles were the splash of color and the momentary fascination. That even just for a moment, they enthralled me. And I guess that's all that matters, right?

I put my index finger and my thumb together again. It's been too long. Time to make more bubbles.