Pop a bubble. Any bubble—bubble wrap, bubble gum, the bubbles that come in the plastic bubble. Whenever I pop a bubble I feel that crazy delight that only popping a bubble can generate, and I sincerely believe that popping bubbles is good for the soul. As much fun as all of the other types of bubbles are, my favorite type of bubble to pop is my own.
My bubble. My safe little realm of understanding. My reference point containing all things familiar.
Everyone has a bubble. Some people become prisoners of theirs, reinforcing the walls until nothing can penetrate them. I try to do exactly the opposite; I try to pop my bubble as often as I can.
I do this by interacting with life. Generally, life plods on as usual: I go to school, do homework, do chores, practice the piano, and hang out with friends. There are long stretches with nothing new, but new might be the wrong word. Things change of course, but within reason; I got a haircut a few weeks ago, but it didn’t change my perception of reality. The “pop” I love happens only once in a while. It doesn’t have to be some mind-blowing, earth-shattering event; usually it comes in the form of a new friend, a new teacher, or a new book with something completely new and different to offer.
This thing they have to offer—a new piece of knowledge, an experience they describe, whatever it is—pops my bubble. It wakes me up to a side of life I’d never considered before and changes the way I look at something if not everything. A true “eureka” moment, like the time I discovered that things other than peanut butter and jelly could be put between two slices of bread.
The fragile walls I have built up over the last little while have at last been brought down. I love that feeling of having discovered something new (and I find it remarkably similar to the bubble wrap-popping sensation). I love being able to see things differently than I have before. I believe in altering my reality.
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