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
If it were possible to leave behind the existence of invisible wounds, would "unstoppable" be the energy flowing onto every unwritten page?
If teardrops only fell during laughter that makes stomachs hurt, would the meaning of blood, sweat and tears touch differently?
If dragons no longer freely roamed the hallways, would the anthems of mundane things sound better?
If moments were permanently crossed out, would every happy occasion from those times also be packed away?
If hopes came true, would they be as valuable without the wearing down from the wilderness lived along the way?
If everything was changed or even just here and there, would the poverty of earned wisdom create doubt in the tomorrows?
For if we are honest, it is far easier to meet less demanding in the mirror than it is to dream of flying high with the complexities of a whole lot of labor pushing against us.
Effortless to know what should have happened after the moments have passed then it is to embrace forgiveness for the spin of not knowing or the repeating of familiar.
Natural to rely on a system that reflects worth only in the best parts than to imagine breaking the limits that deplete us before we have even started.
And yet amidst all that is in the delicate dance of debris and blooming, what we have we have met in living more in the give and take of art.
In the painful distortions of growing pains exposing thoughts and feelings needing open words to unite in.
In wisdom refusing to show up without the flex of mistakes and struggles helping to nourish it.
In speeches of hurt hearts desiring to be heard without the fear of additional losses.
In strength standing on the fringe as a witness to the vulnerability of survival crawling its way through the messes.
In journeys that make knowing hope deeply intimate rather than merely an idea on a page.
In determination that has made it through minimal lighting and every reason not to but did so anyways.
If we are still asking who we would be without what has been, unrestricted unstoppable allows pausing as many times as we need for as long as it takes in learning to love the versions that hope is trying to forget.
Have the best day POSSIBLE for you. Love Always, Heavell
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