There’s so much to say in the constant maintenance of the things our thoughts show us.
In the repetition of the palettes that minds comfortably look for despite the resistance that hearts have for those beliefs.
In the chasing of dreams, while living in patterns that remain attached to the speech that stacks debris against gardens.
And in the truth that no matter how much or little there has been, happiness isn’t memorable in survival mode.
So, here we are, fighting to live within hand-painted art that holds wreckage.
Searching for the grass that is greener somewhere over there and the versions that will be better than the current nowhere.
Hoping for the kind of clarity that even the darkness can’t silence.
Desiring a collection that needs no words to express its beauty.
And longing for a bond written in permanent marker that added colors of feelings can’t blur.
But what is love within an edition that it doesn’t even know, if its actions seemingly haven’t found a foothold in who it already does?
How will we get what we hope for when safety isn’t sitting in the garden with us?
And how can we be sure we will recognize what we feel we haven’t known?
It’s hard for the light to penetrate the weather when love isn’t being socialized within the spaces of ourselves.
When the barrier protecting our insecurities gives the poor prognosis that happiness can’t validate unhappiness.
And the sky view of bad days automatically locks up the ringing of feelings with its pattern recognition.
Because change isn’t just about different moments and feelings but rather the detaching from the familiarity of the thoughts we seek and their trajectory that we use.
So, by introducing something small and meaningful, like the slower pitch of love, the momentum of the hurt processes and then lessens over time.
And even though we may not always know what that feels like on the inside, for whatever reason, we get to try on energies until the spaces in our homes get comfortable with grief being in the same room as love.
So, here’s some weeds to break those chains because confidence isn’t built from what blooms or a life of sunshine but by weathering storms in the safety of deserving to love ourselves anyways.
Have the best day POSSIBLE for you. Love Always, Heavell
There are homes that are painted with hurt and the confusion of the time that it still demands.
With memories that don’t allow swapping places with dreams because the rain doesn’t just interact with the crowds of the past.
And words that have been built around all of it that weren’t inherited in the same way as the pages of others.
There are wishes for flowers without the desire to know how to deal with the weeds.
Out-of-rhythm dancing that rises to meet the noise of dragons and inconsistent happiness.
And grief that thinks it is the star of the stories while smiles seek to be believed in.
For this is yesterday’s framework showing up as today’s model to continue the wilting and withering of the tomorrows through prior and future impacts.
A habit of being prepared for the storms that seem to be bonded to the light and ordinary days that hold a secret friendship with the worry.
In the company of shadows reading the lines that suffer with silent tears and the loss of sleep.
And yet, we have come all this way because of a willingness to reach the versions
that remember how we take our bad days and stay anyways.
To be the gardens that know the footsteps of the weeds so that when the rain comes, we aren’t finished.
To be the colors bursting with life that see the darkness in a way that we never thought was embraceable.
And to be the ones that notice that the “toughing it out” of the past was enough and choose to have patience as that survival skill resists fading away.
For love isn’t always happy, and hope doesn’t always work out, but both redefine the stories that have been narrated in the direction that never really meets us.
Because love doesn’t change the facts, it intentionally gives the observation that messy isn’t the only perspective in the nothing but real things.
For love is a traveler reading between the lines, delivering what we need when truth hurts, and the lighting isn’t all right.
There’s something about wanting there to be here, where thinking of tomorrow won’t just be something to dream of.
But what always seems days away will also always feel unreachable deep in the homes that the weather conspires against and words fail.
And so, we are here, all along packing hand-made art into the twists and turns of crowds of feelings while not realizing that love doesn’t need a particular version, it just stays anyways.
Have the best day POSSIBLE for you. Love Always, Heavell
Colors dressing up spaces with feelings that block happiness.
Good times without a chance mixed with survival in the ruffles of under the weather.
Moments with the power to make the top look much like the bottom.
A story revolving around the distance left to get there and the words to back it up.
A leaning composed by the unique perception of how colors feel when they hit.
A standard of unhappy that settles in with rumors of being the only one.
A worn-out traveler that has come to be expected on the pages and in the home.
A place where even time doesn’t change anything nor does dreaming, no matter what is proposed.
And then there is the cost of that particular certainty with takeover on its mind.
And the added weight from layers of grieving.
And fear weaponizing its warnings about the cracks in joy.
As we paint lonely in the circling storms without remembering abandoning the sun that didn’t look like we thought it should.
While holding “forever” in our hearts, longing for who we would be without such moments.
For when something leaves or seems to be missing, fingerprints and the frequency of rain blur the mirror.
Because all of this belongs to the occupancy of sorrow’s unflinching march, as if the story is over even though we continue to exist.
But giving “unhappy” the space to roam isn’t an act of letting happiness go despite the mumblings of sleepless dragons within the home.
For the intimacy of mourning as well as laughter does not live in events but in how it’s added to the hand-made identity stretched to fit the garden in.
The hurt has already bloomed and even if it’s never that far away, it isn’t asking to be remembered by the colors and the words drenched with past beliefs.
For the touch of those incredible notes is about giving up on the “forever” because happiness never thought it was missing in those memories, only that it had been neglected in them.
To love without knowing is to stand in the wreckage and discover that the clarity of the light isn’t absent but concealed by the harshness of the wash.
Have the best day POSSIBLE for you. Love Always, Heavell
Beauty does not rely upon some thing to be seen and yet a garden needs something before it can be validated as holding beauty.
Some declared vessel.
Some idea of how happiness blooms.
Some goal planted between the gardener that has been trying and its fields.
And who is that grower or its yard to disagree with being rooted in those beliefs?
But then, no matter what, the seeds are inconsistent. and the weather is unfriendly.
Leaving a garden and its gardener nervous and saddened within the spaces that they endeavor in.
Color does not rely upon some thing to be expressed and yet an artist needs something in order to not question the expression in its own declaration.
Some purposeful object that belongs.
Some rule to build where the light goes in the dark.
Some second-hand insight painted between the artist that has been practicing and its craft.
And who is that painter or its artwork to deny those mechanics of visual art?
But then, no matter what, paints don’t blend as directed and the top looks much like the bottom.
Shifting the creation and the composer into recreating the muddiness of moments longer in feelings than support.
And those same silent decisions breathe within the writer and its protagonist as well as other originators and their work.
Along with the belief that by not fitting within some dance of art and words, they are producing heartache.
This is the confusion in auditioning for happiness observed somewhere around another’s bend.
This is the idea that the honesty of debris can’t somehow brighten the darkest of pages.
This is the fear of being the one needing to do things differently.
And this is fragile.
But then, no matter what, beauty comes along with the conversation that it does not rely upon some thing to be seen and line after line, love without knowing chooses to follow that very same beat.
Have the best day POSSIBLE for you. Love Always, Heavell
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