Balatron is something very common, yet no one really notices it. It’s because it’s very common. Balatron is taken for granted and is ignored most of the time. But Balatron is very common, like the yellow stains on wallpapers and bread crumbles on top of tables, and that’s what makes it so special. It’s those kinds of things—we’re so used to it that sometimes, we don’t even realize it’s gone. But after we realize it’s gone, all of a sudden, we know something’s terribly, terribly wrong.
Balatron is black. It’s white. It’s blue. It’s red. It’s yellow. It’s green. It has many different colors. It is made out of many different colors. Or does it make the colors? Chicken-or-the-egg type of question.
Balatron can sometimes grow quite big. When I say big, I mean a penny-sized big—I know a penny is usually not associated with the term “big,” but remember, we’re talking about Balatron, not us. Actually, a more accurate measurement could be something like the size of your mostly-used-up eraser—no, the size of your eraser doesn’t matter. It just has to be mostly-used-up.
Balatron does… nothing. Or does nothing do Balatron? They both do the same thing. They’re always the same—they don’t change—like the loud sound of your neighbor’s land mower that always disturbs your morning coffee at exactly 8:15 AM. Sometimes, yes, like I said before, Balatron can get bigger—and smaller, of course. But most of the time, it’s the same. It’s quite similar to nothing. Does Balatron mean anything? We don’t know. It’s just Balatron; that’s all, and that’s enough.
Balatron is warm. It’s most definitely not hot. It’s just warm. For us to feel something warm, it’s gotta be more than 36.5 degrees Celsius (of course it’s in Celsius—it’s Balatron). Balatron is probably around 41 degrees. Maybe 43. But probably nowhere around 50. It never gets cold either. For us to feel something cold, it’s gotta be less than 36.5 degrees Celsius. Balatron never gets lower than 36.5 degrees. Are the numbers too confusing? A good example would be the temperature of the water in your bathtub after you stay in the water for 25 minutes. Or maybe the cup of tea you had in the morning that you left on your desk for thirty minutes.
Balatron is always moving. Yes, it doesn’t do anything. But it moves. Does moving count as doing something? Then I might have to change what I’ve said earlier. Well, technically, no, since it’s not moving by its own will. It just automatically moves—have you ever seen someone’s eye twitch from pulling all-nighters? It’s something like that. Balatron doesn’t twitch, but it moves to the East, West, South, and North. It also moves to places we’ve never seen before—after all, it’s pretty small. It moves to places we’ve never imagined before. There is another world inside our world, Balatron says. Can it speak? I don’t know. Probably not. At least, we can’t understand it. But that’s what Balatron would’ve said.
Can you guess what Balatron is? No? Well, that’s because it’s a thing—or a someone—itself. You can’t guess what Balatron is because it’s Balatron. Don’t try to find out what it is. Don’t try to associate it with something else. Don’t try to think you know what it is. Balatron is just Balatron. For sure, though, it’s quite literal. It may not be something easily seen, or easily understood. But it’s definitely not something we can’t see at all, either. It’s not like love, fear, anger, or those types of things. It exists, and everyone can see it. It’s right next to us. It’s right below us. It’s right above us. It’s everywhere. Oh look, there’s one right there!
Seohyun Claire Yoon is a senior at Langley High School and Editor-in-Chief of Kaleidoscope: Literary Magazine. She is a Gold Key recipient of the Scholastic Art & Writing Contest, Finalist of the international Young Writers Award under the Writing For Peace Journal, and has worked as an education content writer under Moosmosis Organization. A believer in trying new things, Seohyun values delving into unique and imaginative categories of literary works including both fiction and nonfiction.