Tucked amongst packed moments are the reminders that every single step of our art has held some form of insecurity and uncertainty.
Encircled within the details of planned steps, the meandering of others, standout colors and those that showed up looking the same.
Reflected through seeds of trying, stillness, the right conditions and the thorns of survival.
Because the spaces of hope's blooms and the debris of the unasked for all rest within the landscape of possibilities.
In how we have been changed in the episodes of vague language where naming burdens harmonized with the poetry of flowers that inevitably didn't spring to life.
And in the permission to keep dreaming while not looking alright in mirrors that hold unanswered questions and grief.
Artists, after all, grow alongside their unfolding art set amongst an overthinking audience with writings that only validate certain conditions.
And we reread those notes, questioning the truth, making it so we can't really see or do as much as we could.
So, life goes on and we are unprepared to acknowledge self-doubt and unreliability as nourishment for anything other than what it's been.
Taken aback by legacies of struggles causing us to wrestle with opportunities to include softness and safety.
Challenged by the structure of too much to be able to create room in stories that pain has kept us in.
But then getting there doesn't make a lot of sense either because insecurity as well as uncertainty are known as wrong turns.
As the detours that we are expected to avoid even though sometimes there isn't another possible decision.
And as the common enemies that sabotage us with storms of their very own.
But what weeds leave out of conversations is that we don't have to dive headfirst into the logic of the moving parts that we are used to.
So, when the notes are fresh, give it a moment because the volume is up on the heartless thunder and the illusion is that we can't make it out.
But words packed to travel in one direction were never meant to stay that way and we get to learn to love ourselves in the before and every step after.
The magic isn't just in the flowers but in eventually being steadfast in not shrinking the artist who's growing alongside the art.
Have the best day POSSIBLE for you. Love Always, Heavell
There's so much to say in the constant maintenance of the things our thoughts show us.
In the repetition of the palettes that minds comfortably look for despite the resistance that hearts have for those beliefs.
In the chasing of dreams, while living in patterns that remain attached to the speech that stacks debris against gardens.
And in the truth that no matter how much or little there has been, happiness isn't memorable in survival mode.
So, here we are, fighting to live within hand-painted art that holds wreckage.
Searching for the grass that is greener somewhere over there and the versions that will be better than the current nowhere.
Hoping for the kind of clarity that even the darkness can't silence.
Desiring a collection that needs no words to express its beauty.
And longing for a bond written in permanent marker that added colors of feelings can't blur.
But what is love within an edition that it doesn't even know, if its actions seemingly haven't found a foothold in who it already does?
How will we get what we hope for when safety isn't sitting in the garden with us?
And how can we be sure we will recognize what we feel we haven't known?
It's hard for the light to penetrate the weather when love isn't being socialized within the spaces of ourselves.
When the barrier protecting our insecurities gives the poor prognosis that happiness can't validate unhappiness.
And the sky view of bad days automatically locks up the ringing of feelings with its pattern recognition.
Because change isn't just about different moments and feelings but rather the detaching from the familiarity of the thoughts we seek and their trajectory that we use.
So, by introducing something small and meaningful, like the slower pitch of love, the momentum of the hurt processes and then lessens over time.
And even though we may not always know what that feels like on the inside, for whatever reason, we get to try on energies until the spaces in our homes get comfortable with grief being in the same room as love.
So, here's some weeds to break those chains because confidence isn't built from what blooms or a life of sunshine but by weathering storms in the safety of deserving to love ourselves anyways.
Have the best day POSSIBLE for you. Love Always, Heavell
There are homes that are painted with hurt and the confusion of the time that it still demands.
With memories that don't allow swapping places with dreams because the rain doesn't just interact with the crowds of the past.
And words that have been built around all of it that weren't inherited in the same way as the pages of others.
There are wishes for flowers without the desire to know how to deal with the weeds.
Out-of-rhythm dancing that rises to meet the noise of dragons and inconsistent happiness.
And grief that thinks it is the star of the stories while smiles seek to be believed in.
For this is yesterday's framework showing up as today's model to continue the wilting and withering of the tomorrows through prior and future impacts.
A habit of being prepared for the storms that seem to be bonded to the light and ordinary days that hold a secret friendship with the worry.
In the company of shadows reading the lines that suffer with silent tears and the loss of sleep.
And yet, we have come all this way because of a willingness to reach the versions
that remember how we take our bad days and stay anyways.
To be the gardens that know the footsteps of the weeds so that when the rain comes, we aren't finished.
To be the colors bursting with life that see the darkness in a way that we never thought was embraceable.
And to be the ones that notice that the "toughing it out" of the past was enough and choose to have patience as that survival skill resists fading away.
For love isn't always happy, and hope doesn't always work out, but both redefine the stories that have been narrated in the direction that never really meets us.
Because love doesn't change the facts, it intentionally gives the observation that messy isn't the only perspective in the nothing but real things.
For love is a traveler reading between the lines, delivering what we need when truth hurts, and the lighting isn't all right.
There's something about wanting there to be here, where thinking of tomorrow won't just be something to dream of.
But what always seems days away will also always feel unreachable deep in the homes that the weather conspires against and words fail.
And so, we are here, all along packing hand-made art into the twists and turns of crowds of feelings while not realizing that love doesn't need a particular version, it just stays anyways.
Have the best day POSSIBLE for you. Love Always, Heavell
Colors dressing up spaces with feelings that block happiness.
Good times without a chance mixed with survival in the ruffles of under the weather.
Moments with the power to make the top look much like the bottom.
A story revolving around the distance left to get there and the words to back it up.
A leaning composed by the unique perception of how colors feel when they hit.
A standard of unhappy that settles in with rumors of being the only one.
A worn-out traveler that has come to be expected on the pages and in the home.
A place where even time doesn't change anything nor does dreaming, no matter what is proposed.
And then there is the cost of that particular certainty with takeover on its mind.
And the added weight from layers of grieving.
And fear weaponizing its warnings about the cracks in joy.
As we paint lonely in the circling storms without remembering abandoning the sun that didn't look like we thought it should.
While holding "forever" in our hearts, longing for who we would be without such moments.
For when something leaves or seems to be missing, fingerprints and the frequency of rain blur the mirror.
Because all of this belongs to the occupancy of sorrow's unflinching march, as if the story is over even though we continue to exist.
But giving "unhappy" the space to roam isn't an act of letting happiness go despite the mumblings of sleepless dragons within the home.
For the intimacy of mourning as well as laughter does not live in events but in how it's added to the hand-made identity stretched to fit the garden in.
The hurt has already bloomed and even if it's never that far away, it isn't asking to be remembered by the colors and the words drenched with past beliefs.
For the touch of those incredible notes is about giving up on the "forever" because happiness never thought it was missing in those memories, only that it had been neglected in them.
To love without knowing is to stand in the wreckage and discover that the clarity of the light isn't absent but concealed by the harshness of the wash.
Have the best day POSSIBLE for you. Love Always, Heavell
Beauty does not rely upon some thing to be seen and yet a garden needs something before it can be validated as holding beauty.
Some declared vessel.
Some idea of how happiness blooms.
Some goal planted between the gardener that has been trying and its fields.
And who is that grower or its yard to disagree with being rooted in those beliefs?
But then, no matter what, the seeds are inconsistent. and the weather is unfriendly.
Leaving a garden and its gardener nervous and saddened within the spaces that they endeavor in.
Color does not rely upon some thing to be expressed and yet an artist needs something in order to not question the expression in its own declaration.
Some purposeful object that belongs.
Some rule to build where the light goes in the dark.
Some second-hand insight painted between the artist that has been practicing and its craft.
And who is that painter or its artwork to deny those mechanics of visual art?
But then, no matter what, paints don't blend as directed and the top looks much like the bottom.
Shifting the creation and the composer into recreating the muddiness of moments longer in feelings than support.
And those same silent decisions breathe within the writer and its protagonist as well as other originators and their work.
Along with the belief that by not fitting within some dance of art and words, they are producing heartache.
This is the confusion in auditioning for happiness observed somewhere around another's bend.
This is the idea that the honesty of debris can't somehow brighten the darkest of pages.
This is the fear of being the one needing to do things differently.
And this is fragile.
But then, no matter what, beauty comes along with the conversation that it does not rely upon some thing to be seen and line after line, love without knowing chooses to follow that very same beat.
Have the best day POSSIBLE for you. Love Always, Heavell
Weaving feelings from scattered pieces doing time along the journey.
Mixing second-hand paints as directed onto original artwork.
Being the main character and still waiting to truly be expressed.
Present in collapsed timelines sharing moments with matching soundtracks.
Turning the volume up and hating the noise it emits.
Traversing as a stranger on trails best suited for friendship.
Artistry leaning on lost in the dance of colors and words.
Camps talking about lingering grief, anger and takebacks.
Slides of distorted art and rumors of being the only one.
Fearing thoughts that burn dreams to the ground and thinking about them.
And chasing out-of-here with a hope for a guaranteed outcome.
Also, off the record:
Untangle what was.
Don't fit in.
Forgive the writer.
Be an observer.
Question limitations.
Become a friend.
Don't comply with smallness.
Support yesterday's weather.
Embrace messy art.
Let joy be free to speak too.
And love without knowing.
It's emotional being both the artist and the art. The writer and the protagonist. The gardener and the garden. Beauty that notices beauty elsewhere. Making mistakes and also doing good things. Holding the power to go but also the capacity to hold back. Existing within the present but affected by views of the past and dreams of the future. Walking straight in some moments and circles in others.
It's emotional not accepting who we are but expecting to believe in who we have yet to meet. To have weathered storms and to be terrified we can't survive upheaval. To grieve and think that happy wouldn't embrace sorrow too. To be the people we are going through with and to be the strangers within those same individuals. To see in the mirror and to not see all that is in the mirror.
It's emotional when moments are longer in feelings than support, but those negative spaces are the debris in a garden and that very same nourishment can cast good things just as easily as it can separate us from them.
We can always go back to the conflict, and we can also always choose to slowly build our way out of being conflicted during those visits.
Have the best day POSSIBLE for you. Love Always, Heavell.
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