Adversity has sounded in the footsteps.
With certainty coming from that clarity.
A clearness to paint a narrative with.
And functionality on days of surviving.
Turns out that space both saves and wounds.
Red invites finding it.
To take it in as an expression of love.
To see it everywhere.
And as a voice for anger.
Turns out that color both saves and wounds.
Songs are some of the little things to be held onto.
Free with expressions to connect to.
To be heard in.
And revisited whenever desired.
Turns out that music both saves and wounds.
And so, it goes word after word in our own homes.
Where we think too much but then too little as well.
Capture moments to gaze at in silence and loudness.
Wonder how much more there must be.
Feel caught between storms and the colors that bloom because of them.
And cover everything from laughter to mistakes to despair and back again.
So, to avoid repurposing yesterday, we move to leave it behind.
But it turns out we are connected to ourselves in unseen ways, and that it stays despite the direction we face or what we ignore.
Maybe through this or that word, a few of our natural colors, a couple of songs, or a familiar face that appears again in the mirror despite time, but all remain either way.
Because we can't just separate ourselves from the uniqueness that makes seeing red as the right color here and never a good choice over there a truth.
Especially since we have been built by layers upon layers folding into us even when we've needed the sentences to end differently.
Wanting to rescind a moment doesn't mean abandoning ourselves, but that's what's been recycled for far too long.
Hating spaces was never about abhorring the versions with messes, but it's made sense to do so in the growth of confusion.
And grief has never been limited to the loss of others, and yet limping along in sorrow for other reasons has stayed as a shadow topic.
Decisions made in what we knew as yesterday, and they can only poison tomorrow if we play the same character with the same words contained within the very same certainty.
Because it's not about letting go of what our homes hold but releasing the false beliefs that have encouraged us to misunderstand ourselves.
For a flower has its stages but is still loved, and we have ours but are just beginning to learn that love has always been meant for us and not determined by the stages.
Which is why a line, a word or a color have never been enough to tell or decide a story despite the labels that we have been baiting ourselves with.
But each does contribute to setting us up for success and for wounding.
Have the best day, POSSIBLE for you. Love Always, Heavell
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