Words hold the power of the writer.
Made through lists honoring the details.
Known and unknown in both love and hate.
Embraced, this way or on that path.
Blurred in the gaps of confusion and pain.
Adapted for and left out of consideration.
Sewn by presence and absence.
Used in familiarity, not necessarily favoritism.
Chronicled since long, long ago.
And echoing forth as tomorrow looms ahead.
Because words continue to give what's locked in.
In the way, we see ourselves with them.
In the same 24/7 voice, narrating new spaces.
Sorrow claiming the blues.
Consistency copying comfortable responses.
Challenges rooting in the dirt.
Doubt plowing over us whenever it wants.
Safety held for some future chapter.
Pushing through is best known for its role as not enough.
And feelings stalking misery despite hope.
Simply because it's what our art has been promoting.
But who are we on the other hand, where silence has been encouraged to bloom?
The side that we skip over, due to its unfamiliarity.
The one where falls aren't seen as the end point.
Wonder cuts through the clutter for words to grow in our own gardens.
War is the old game and liking us is actually the story.
Love doesn't use the language of love to justify blocking love.
Happy isn't the end of unhappy but an understanding of being both.
Hello to expansion is a good-bye to the limitations that have contained the power of us.
And where the image of strong is a better read with fragile than separately.
Our art is a pattern of certainty and uncertainty.
Both come to cover every moment.
Neither is actually fixed, but our practices complicate their presence.
Either one can rule, but neither becomes the enemy when used together.
And straddling the path to sort things out is always available regardless of the time spent surviving on a side.
Art is art, moments are moments, and words are always meant to be free to help give us our all.
Have the best day, POSSIBLE for you. Love Always, Heavell
There is a particular word over here.
It doesn't wait for some moment.
Doesn't care about the weather.
Doesn't know moderation.
Doesn't care what it represents.
And it doesn't fear the dark.
Now that word is over there.
Still not focused on some moment.
It doesn't even consider the weather.
Doesn't limit itself.
Doesn't point at good or bad.
And it doesn't need any reasons to be.
Once again, the word is on the move.
A moment plays a role in its pacing.
The weather accommodates it.
Songs fight to use it.
Lines are bloated by it.
And all that is, is bonded with it.
That certain word watching the thoughts and feelings that come and go.
Joining in on the ride towards either the sadness or the happiness.
The agreement of carrying the cracks cruelly or gently.
The shock of lingering in the gossip on the streets or shuffling its own pages.
The loss of the gardener in the garden or the commitment to the cycles of not pretty and pretty.
And the awkwardness of abiding with that familiar argument, as if it's complete.
That particular word calling upon perfect moments to flourish but finding itself stuck within the hurt.
Wishing to be supported but mostly ignored.
Praying for change while convictions stay stable.
And hearing the talk in other stories but never like it should in its own.
Every moment is in a relationship with us.
Through the images and feelings that continue to blast us.
And even a certain word that we believe was not embodied in the right way.
But none of that is meant to be where we remain in our face-to-face connection with some moment.
That while a previously unhappy word may not have been a good look, it is still open to being livable.
And that an attachment that has taken so much over the years was never the final say about anything.
Because while influence may start in some moment and continue with a particular word, the real story begins when writing for us and not the impact.
Making offers until we figure out the one that helps us to show up for ourselves.
The one that understands that many different things can be in the same space.
Like how not enough over there was really enough not being seen in all the ways that it exists and updating that line is a part of change.
Because flowers don't need perfect moments to bloom, but they do need us in order to flourish.
Have the best day, POSSIBLE for you. Love Always, Heavell
Feelings are felt.
Reflections occur.
And hope steps in for wishes to make a difference.
But nothing changes, and so the argument continues.
Another day has passed.
There are occasional curves.
And the house shutters the sorrow.
But nothing changes, and so the argument continues.
We try again.
Give more.
And softer music tries to oppose familiar tears.
But nothing changes, and so the argument continues.
Old messages know the aches.
Tomorrow is silent because it isn't here now.
And scars are admirable while their wounds are cringy.
But nothing changes, and so the argument continues.
Not for understanding the witness of the loudness.
Not to love the confused.
Not to celebrate survival as resilience.
But because underneath what's stared at, felt and repeated is the deeper story of a box.
A value card measuring every detail of the homeland.
Sentimental about causing drama in the garden.
A publisher that endorses burnout but not relief.
And obscures hero with clouds to make it look like it isn't anywhere in the story.
But we can't afford to stand still in past injuries, and we also can't finance a future that ends up siding with our life-long argument either.
And while change implies it needs us to know what we are doing, what it really needs is for us to get out of the dispute that keeps repeating storylines.
To feel how close we are to the losses and not continue the anthem that's trained us to flail because of them.
To agree that mistakes pull at us but that they do not validate the mistreatment of us.
To remember that a home isn't some place but us as the gardener and the garden.
That it isn't the best use of time reading the comment section of wounds, but it is if we are bringing comfort to the sharpness.
And that happiness will always feel out of reach as long as we are stuck surviving in the argument that treats us as if we are the thorns and not the flowers.
Have the best day, POSSIBLE for you. Love Always, Heavell
Some words are seen far more often than what they've actually done.
Playing with bits of life.
Applying assumptions along the way.
Louder than they should be.
Better at gathering rain.
Even at times confusing love as the villain.
Some words are seen far more often than they are actually favored.
Written in the margins.
Pointing at upright.
Shouted from the crowd.
Hosted from experience.
Everything and nothing at the same time.
Some words are seen far more often than they actually show up.
Paying no attention to the waiting weather.
Taking care of just enough to be believed.
Trying to hold onto beauty.
Assembling pieces of theater.
Freezing time.
Some words are seen simply because they move around our gardens.
Like when the rain is pouring from our eyes.
Where we are isn't enough.
And the evidence of our own unique blue is confusing for us.
Or when hope appears in a way that we didn't grasp that we needed.
Toiling achieves something.
And when conversations bring peace.
Some words are seen because they connect us to what's ours.
Where weakness and strength argue for different parts.
The desire to be seen strays away from having to show up.
And the personal hero without cheers from the crowd has to keep going.
But the more places that we can adapt to, the less some words can define who we are.
The more we ride around feeling rather than being, the less some words of doubt have to give.
And the more we are open to falling, the less history has the freedom to continue with some words.
Gardens aren't just meant to be in the company of flowers, and gardeners shouldn't live otherwise just because some words don't favor that.
Have the best day, POSSIBLE for you. Love Always, Heavell
Recent Comments