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
Happiness is sliding into laughter with effortless generosity.
An expansion of the breath without instructions from narratives.
A match with the kind of success that the heart knows intimately.
Until temporary appearances move it into something to long for.
Dreams are a leap forward to ideal moments offered somewhere down the line.
An ecosystem where hearts and minds will be lovingly embraced.
Pictures of flowers hung on walls to light up darkened rooms.
Until the loss from fires makes them something to long for.
Love is a song that fully believes in how it fits into a home.
Strength to carry backpacks that can't be given away.
A commitment to saving alone under the title of all right.
Until the inconvenience of difficult connections turns it into something to long for.
When wanted things sit in preferences, it's perfect fuel for the stuff supportive language is made of.
But when they shift positions, suddenly those aspects are enrolled under suffering and failings.
The fallout of the very same words hollering in the other kind of weather just as they have frolicked in the one, we enjoy them in.
As if it isn't just the dragons wreaking havoc but the sun hating upon us as well.
As if a certain amount of preserved right moments would finally make imperfect less sticky.
But in some ways, those patches of desired things make us more dependent on a value that we think they solely hold.
On their implied safety that doesn't even bother to mention the ingredients needed for the days that are the opposite of lovely.
And their script that fails to point out that messy neighbors emerging from behind curtains doesn't cause happiness, dreams or love to evacuate.
In artistry, words are inconvenient because what we notice limits how they are used.
And that impact is felt when dressed-down details take while leaving behind the remains of us in silence.
For it is the matching things standing in different positions that fill up our homes with contrasting information about what artists are actually capable of.
We are all about the good and the colorful but when the days that we have show up with none of that, lean in because there is nothing that says only one kind of weather produces freedom.
Have the best day POSSIBLE for you. Love Always, Heavell
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