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.
We are here chasing the sun, caught between the forces of consistent and change with emotions that hold tight and desires that argue for leaving.
Holding close the confusion from training for look-alike steps and the whispers of being alright while lost walking in loops.
Convinced that there isn't room for joy's soft shelters in the same home of unhappiness's success.
Needing kindness and being closer to the survival that has never hugged itself.
Here, where the garden has been both friend and foe.
Here, where the debris has hurt and promised relief.
Here, where lies and truth swoop in to add and remove nourishment.
Here, where the spin is a shared battle between the heart and the mind.
Here, as if diagnosed as being bad for our own selves.
And yet if we are the ones with the falls, then we are also the ones with the come ups to comfort ourselves with.
Not to wish for flawless steps and tearless rises.
Not to shift from the reality of suffering nor to chase being on another trail.
Not to leave what touches behind nor to carry those marks to the next page.
But here, to learn from the moments that keep uploading what needs healing.
Here, to understand the unseen and unheard versions living in the shadows.
Here, to find the lost potential in the lessons of messes.
Here, to be the love in the hardest parts.
Here, to connect, act and balance with more than happiness.
Because even though we are here, overwhelmed with the notion of getting it wrong, love doesn't always know where to go on the good days and darkness doesn't only hold tears of pain.
Consistent isn't a foe and change isn't a dream until a moment or the force of many present a battle that needs different paper shields.
Have the best day POSSIBLE for you. Love Always, Heavell
In the debate between suffering and desire, genuine art comes with beliefs and dreams come with questions.
All we know is that the receipts hurt as well as the dread that the backstory won't be left behind and that even in silence there can still be a war.
Some blame that on the fear of moving forward but the real thief of change is always the carried identity that has often existed for far longer than any wish.
Because despite hope, the noise shared between the heart and the head will serve recycled stuff as an anchor even on the good days.
And since past editions need consoling, dreams have to be able to cover the narratives that "talk bad" about the dreamers themselves.
So, is it possible to hold onto "new" in mirrors connected and moved by the constraints of moments that highlight familiar?
Can lines of a love story be written in scripts whose language has chronically abandoned and underrated being worthy of love?
Can belonging take root in empty spaces that don't feel like home?
Could matter be brought to display beauty in garden terrains littered throughout with pricey debris?
And can that activism continue to be managed if the lighting fades, enthusiasm wanes and folded pages catch new sadness?
It's true that it seems like we should just move forward but on this side of ahead, we continue to count what we have been trained to notice, and we have to learn not to.
Besides what we have isn't looking to be heard way up there and yet it will linger until we pause to see that the dream of past genuine art is that it is worthy of coming back for.
In reverse, a version of ourselves was wearing the absence of belonging while carving out a path and that changes when a shared story finds love for itself even in the fumbles.
Have the best day POSSIBLE for you. Love Always, Heavell
Could have allowed grief to have space in the garden but thought permission was needed.
Should have stood but leaning seemed meant to be.
Could have painted clearly but the debris was moving.
Should have done something different but the familiar had the gift of gab.
Could have pretended but the art was too real.
Should have let it go but storms were stalking.
Could have tried again but was too tired to.
Should have sung a new tune but used to the gut-wrenching growls of dragons.
Could have hoped but still here so there's no point.
Should have written a better story but already fit into the lines of the old one.
Could have been found but it's locked in the same room as lost.
Should have moved but the choices didn't provide the outcomes first.
Could have gained moments of happy but sad was lurking close by too.
Should have loved imperfect but applause prefers flawless scores.
Could have done it like someone else but didn't grow up on those pages.
Should have heard the pain but the connotations and denotations of words got twisted.
We say that it takes hope to pull us out of the darkness but if it's been, then the pressure has been building as well, and that hurts enough to be out of our minds.
So, carried away by unresolved moments that liberation from pain is the actual dream and anything that brings relief in the present becomes a possibility.
Eventually, though, what felt so right will turn out to be so wrong as the should haves and could haves start again, once more adding up the unsettled.
Can't know what tomorrow will bring but can decide how to feel there regardless.
Can't rewrite old stories but can restore movement on blank pages.
Can't just cry tears from laughter but can embrace both ends of sobbing in the same home.
Can't prevent struggling but can strengthen roots of trust in the debris.
Can't love every minute but can soften the hate with lines of safety.
Can't make all dreams come true but can still have flowers.
Can't be someone else but can be a sometime warrior with its own epic tale.
Can't always be happy but can still see bright lights in the darkness.
To settle the moments where we have nothing left of ourselves to lose means traveling back to the spaces that we didn't understand.
Not to avoid the grief or to let go nor to leave the writings of visitors on the walls but instead to resolve what's there with better knowledge or simply the hug of a lifetime.
To be who we needed then even if we are only one step ahead of that past now.
Because when sharing a story between the heart and the head, they are not looking for relief on the outside but are determined to be heard and loved on the inside.
Have the best day POSSIBLE for you. Love Always, Heavell
Mostly because of tomorrow, we look forward with hope but mostly yesterday's meetings have our eyes glancing back with a quiet pleading wrapped inside a paper shield.
One a longing for something whose moments never live without the presence of happiness.
The other a wish, not about acceptance but a better hiding of the ashes of suffering.
The duality of dreaming while standing in the parade of what has been and the fixation of change.
In the walking with glimpses of an unusual light in the distance and the reminders of iconic storms.
In the chasing of predictable on journeys that don't ask permission for unreliable to exist.
In the captivity of the dislike of survival and the nervousness of leaving that narrative behind, just in case.
In the asking to move forward with different thoughts while the heart's priority is past tempos.
In the attention on being loved over there in rooms where right now needs the hug of a lifetime.
In the waiting for the invaluable that finishes with confidence in exchange of the quiet strength painstakingly grown in the unwished-for.
And in the sewing of patterns that read the pages after having played by the rules of buying the stories for years.
These are the movements within the spaces of gardens trying to set themselves free from the boundaries of their own homes.
These are the words exhausted by the miles they have traveled thus far and know no other way to be.
These are the protests of the old being laid to rest and the vulnerability of the new as it seeks to meld past wisdom into future versions it has not met yet.
This is the worry of balancing the dark with the light.
And this is the forging of a friendship between love and hate once separated by a paper shield.
Once upon a time a weed dreamed of becoming a flower, but then it saw that it had something unique to add and so it leaned in to be embraced by the artistry that only a garden can do.
Have the best day POSSIBLE for you. Love Always, Heavell
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