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
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