Shaky lines will be written from the mechanics of what it has meant to be us.
From apologies said out loud and whispered so that no one can hear them.
From the preservation of what’s been for sure and that which is still unsure.
And from the discomfort of destabilizing things that may or may not last.
Words will be spoken that dilute the truth and cut straight through to it.
That signal what feels warm and safe.
That unite and divide even the silence.
And that create questions about how courage could possibly be in our own stories.
Colors will vibe as marks and love that sings.
Will go first without asking.
Will fail to paint flowers as desired and are a little too accurate when it comes to weeds.
And will be a blessing in the black, the white and the gray.
All because storylines hold a vulnerability that doesn’t come naturally and sensations that we don’t feel built for.
Hold lost and found as a location in the sadness where happiness is missing as well as the other way around.
Hold fear as a door to close off beauty even though lovely doesn’t follow the rulebook of shame’s game.
And hold art that pulls in the dark, the light and every call to be happy in between.
All for the honesty of the pain and what we have or will be doing with it.
For the amount of times the colors haven’t backed down when shoring up a word in our stories.
For the invitations of affection that favor us even when our discomfort is at war with those needs.
And for the label of wisdom that falls, wrong ways and slowdowns get listed under.
All since we live with twists and turns that don’t always put our best parts in the sentences.
That dance in the dust, the silence and experiences.
That have moments worthy of laughing so hard that tears flow.
And that walk with hope and possibilities even in the disbelief and confusion.
There’s something about all of those spaces and the colors from exploring them.
The language that speaks before we have even arrived somewhere.
The features that keep us as a captive audience.
And the dependence that creates more dependence.
Yet we aren’t the story; we are where it plays out.
Where its possible to rebel against whatever tries to tell us that we aren’t strong enough.
Where the sky is still blue up above the storm just like hope is.
And where a particular word remains engaged while knowing us equally in the harm and the joy.
The area we find ourselves in now has a kind of familiarity to it through language that doesn’t like us and dragons that follow us around.
Familiar, though, isn’t a repeat of limited capabilities, but the opportunity to get closer to understanding inside colors and the words they shore up along the way.
Have the best day, POSSIBLE for you. Love Always, Heavell
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