We want flowers but don't really know them.
We have notes but don't really want to know them.
The notes are the reason we want flowers.
The flowers are the reason we do not want the notes.
Holding no meaning for anyone other than those who are shattered by flash cards.
We want to be happy but don't really know it at all.
We have sadness but don't want to deal with it at all.
Sadness is the reason we want to be happy.
Happiness is the reason we don't want to be sad.
Holding no meaning for anyone other than those who are unable to release what's in the way.
We want closeness but don't really know how to stand nearby.
We have distance but don't want to acknowledge how big the space really is.
Distance is the reason we want closeness.
Closeness is the reason we do not want distance.
Holding no meaning for anyone other than those who have taken hollow into the home.
There's something about imagining better in a brighter future.
To sing in a whisper so as not to wake the dragons.
To hope that the dark will pass and more light will be lived.
And that the maybes will become the certainties that we can welcome.
But what happens when flowers don't compare?
Wants don't understand.
Closeness still feels like loneliness,
And thoughts possess the messages that weaken as if it's already over.
Because it's not the home, but the points of reference assembled over time that speak up without effort.
It's not the emotions, but the damage that touches everything despite the distance.
It's not the words but what's running underneath them that strips belonging from connection.
And it's not the desire for rest, but the old that's still inspiring the certainty of fear and pain.
We can wish for flowers, but the ones that are meant to be developed come from our pieces.
We can wish for happiness, but the happy that works out comes from the same place that our sorrow does.
And we can wish for closeness but alone is a connection that can't be triggered by what has built loneliness.
Everything is literature but not everything in other stories is for us even when they come with desirableness or familiarity.
Because getting pieces out of other places creates confusion in our own gardens that don't know them or how they are supposed to fit.
Funny thing is that's exactly how pain and fear contribute to us believing that we can't be different.
The memorable may be a constant companion, but we have the narrative and can make ourselves bigger within those notes.
For what matters isn't a perceived identity from those things but to hold ourselves instead of the criteria that would have us believe otherwise.
Have the best day, POSSIBLE for you. Love Always, Heavell
Recent Comments