Flowers are never just flowers but it's hard to take our minds off of the relief that they bring.
Weeds are never just weeds but it's hard to take our minds off of the disbelief that they bring.
In how their silly little moments and the ones we fall crying into are never really free.
In how the give and take is never quite what we would like it to be.
Or in how ideas of perfect views just happen to come from making wrong turns.
When smiles have been helping to keep pain from making a scene.
When souvenirs land as they do and the balance is off.
In being suspended between happy and unhappy.
In the way that grief is being heard while joy sits out of sight watching.
Because its harder than we think when "being" sticks to everything including us.
In the red of anger that's hoping to be used more in the name of love.
In the chaos and fear of being the writer and the main character.
In wondering about flowers while being in the diversity of gardens.
In trying to control storms by being happy.
Creating limits in the ache but the colors as well.
Packing feelings with and without the presence of surviving.
Giving and hindering support under a label.
Because being is never just being but it's hard to take our minds off of the relief it brings.
Because being is never just being but its hard to take our minds off of the disbelief it brings.
How very real feelings sing in the cracks of being weeds.
How very real feelings breath deeply in being flowers.
And how being uses its umbrella with the same intention for rain as it does for sunshine.
But if we know ourselves in the destinations of being then becoming treasures us in the monologue that being cannot keep us indefinitely.
In how we can be red with anger and turn the page to become softly folded into the red that gently paints love.
In the moments that laughter balances a smile just long enough for joy to become the relief that pain experiences.
And in the adventures that never have anything to do with hopes or dreams.
Looking back, its funny how easy it was to muddy artwork, when flowers were just flowers and weeds were just weeds and being was the exhausting side of the trail we kept our eyes on.
Have the best day POSSIBLE for you. Love Always, Heavell
Our humanness has never tread lightly in our gardens.
Never been a singular moment.
Holds days that shame bleeds through to other pages.
While forgiveness sits in the uncomfortableness of not being seen.
Where those two share their tales of how the weather has gotten through.
How pain has shaped each of their voice's.
Somehow building a strange companionship step by step.
And we take notice of how the loudness owns the story and the silence just shrugs.
Because one act of defeat will inspire another to come down the line too.
And its gotten easier and easier to not argue but to just let that stuff color.
To allow that aching melody to keep playing in the background.
Because its too dense for leniency in the cries of feeling everything and nothing at all.
Too challenging for the person buried under unyielding weight to be uncovered.
Too much falling into the misery that only humanness knows.
In the rain pouring onto the artist as well the artwork.
And for all of our days we have been following that movement not knowing that it's the hardest way to walk any journey.
But guilt knows that we aren't how we looked in the steps that shame demanded to name.
That we are lost in the structured information of words not gone because of moments.
That silence isn't safe and skipping over that won't make today tremble any less.
Because guilt knows that forgiveness leads to deeper repair while staying in park within that same story will continue to cost us happiness.
And while flowers won't suddenly bloom, nor will we just love ourselves, struggles will get labeled as things to work with.
Bracing for falls won't describe disposable.
Down won't signify that things haven't been handled well.
And pretending won't make us cry as hard.
Some say it's better to stand then it is to sit however when it comes to the layers in companionships, there's no guarantee that standing won't actually feed the hell.
That's right, humanness doesn't always tread tenderly and when it's raining, the safety is our voice if it means we didn't transplant shame where it didn't belong.
Have the best day POSSIBLE for you. Love Always, Heavell
The place restless colors are no longer the solution for what we don't know what to do with.
Because the pain has been carried and now we want to spend more time with happy.
And since there have been moments folded into with smiles, hope embraces that idea.
But then something happens and that upgrade silently falls under the weight of suffering.
Leaving the wonder of why shadows are always loading into experiences.
Why blame transitions if versions were left behind in what is supposed to be gone.
And why unhappiness still carries the theme that if it weren't for being inadequit gardeners, happiness would bloom.
For there is more to it than days that gift smiles just as it is with those that receive debris.
So, gardens use thoughts about how some tomorrow will no longer be flooded by yesterday's or even today's tears in trying to regulate the weather.
And yet no matter how strong desire's expectations are, survival refuses to stop dragging familiar along for safety.
Follows up with repeating distrust for the home that has failed to break free from the common messages its known.
And jumps into noursihing unhappiness through the yeses that are still the go to in a garden's outline.
So, we dream of how happy we would be if magic suddenly made unhappy impossible in the future.
But what will we do with the graffiti that is already living comfortably on our pages?
How will we part ways with the versions of ourselves still trying to escape whatever moments?
And will fear no longer be a word that we know how to color so perfectly?
Because dragons still want their tunes of shame to be scored first as the repetitive soundtrack in our stories.
Still want to hide that we are limited in but not by moments.
Still want to be heard over the truth that guilt comes from actions or lack of but not from how our hearts go just because we forgot who we are in those spots.
And to silence that humiliation's weather comes to life for the wrong yeses not for what we do.
Happiness is desirable because its the one place that we feel safe enough to not notice if anything is missing.
It's raining now and if we are going to make it through, then there's no more use for the yeses that can take a single moment and disturb a whole story.
Have the best day POSSIBLE for you. Love Always, Heavell
Sometimes it's not the moment but how that spot feels so deeply familiar.
Sometimes it's not the path but the observation of war there.
Sometimes it's not the words but their implied reduction that is unnerving.
Sometimes it's not the story but the uncertainty that made the same choice.
All of those things and more using the freedom of speech within hand-painted homes.
Loudly holding the stage without acceptance or understanding being in the audience.
As if the weather has unfairly left the sun to be remembered as watching from the sidelines.
When all we wanted was to be good storytellers but unhappy came as it is in reciting what it sees as facts.
And minds were left unable to take note of better within the disorienting vacuum that grief has brought to the landscape.
With those limits being filtered through distracting lectures that honor the win and not the individual stepping along the way.
Labeling us with words in such a way that it's hard to believe that they won't continue their rampage until we somehow stop showing up as ourselves.
Movement that depletes happiness and camouflages it in places we haven't even gotten to yet.
Setting us down with the news that we aren't even welcome in our own homes because our gardens know things other than laughter.
We are, after all, not only sitting with the thoughts and feels of moments but have leaned into listening to the solitude of one-sided footage.
Not to the love that always remembers us no matter what but the one that only likes us when the weather is just right.
Not to the happy that nourishes grief's needs but the one that longs to live without debris.
Not to the speech that supports the spaces left by afraid but the one that goes under every time fear gets ahold of colors.
But happiness doesn't shout a chosen storyline, it simply breathes in the ease of love not being under-fire while unhappiness just omits the love buried deep in the root system of debris.
Forgetting that its still there, still waiting, still connected to us in the eeriness of the dark as it listens to our footsteps all around it.
Sometimes it's not the story but the yes within words that makes big hearts unwelcome within their own homes.
But then there is another yes in those same words that knows that happiness is a contradiction because dancing with dragons makes it strong and swaying in the sun makes it soft.
Have the best day POSSIBLE for you. Love Always, Heavell
Spots where stockpiled emotions and thoughts have their meetings.
Words written down with the weight of all that seriousness.
Echoes that something mattered in each of those places.
And colors proving that they very much still do.
It's strange being close to stories and yet not wanting to be touched by them.
To advocate for silence and set tunes free in dreams.
To seek happiness and avoid the spicy landscapes where it hides.
To be overcrowded with uncomfortableness and be surprised that lonely exists in rooms filled with people.
To wish for change and be afraid that destination will be worse.
To stand up for blooms and sit down for the growth that needs debris.
It's confusing to be ruled out in the archives and hope tomorrow reads differently.
To hold the pen and hate lingering lines.
To let colors flow and somehow not be worn-out by them.
To quietly wish to be a different story and not be able to with loud things following.
For this is how it is while waiting for what's been on our stages to change.
In the not knowing what is around the bend but hoping things will go somewhat well and that the something that matters will be reached.
But history has made it far too easy for the assembly of emotions and thoughts to teach us who we are.
In the nearness of stockpiles whose weight has mattered more than who existed there.
Because real stuff coming from somewhere and going somewhere does not care about our preferences to only touch and be touched as we want.
But if we are going to be held back by the highlights beating separation into us, then we also have to talk about what's still connected in those natural environments.
Because better isn't pain's silence nor tomorrow's dreams but in building what makes us feel seen however, we have been and wherever we have yet to get to.
Standing and sitting are traveling together, inevitably we will have to choose once again and what can break us won't be the whatever moment, but whether that choice reminds us that we are the something that matters or not.
Have the best day POSSIBLE for you. Love Always, Heavell
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