Two different feelings far apart but still close enough in a story.
One happy and the other sad.
Each with just enough time for their messages to be interpreted.
Dropped onto lines as talking points translated from situations.
Just becoming what’s not questioned in the artwork.
Because there’s no consideration for individual details.
No understanding of distractions.
No thought of how personal renditions influence.
Nor how stories aren’t straight journeys.
Just a familiar consistency in the ideas that have been added to us.
In the amplified voice that belonging and loneliness never share smiles.
That thriving is more than what surviving can do.
That flowers are said out loud while weeds on the land around them are silenced.
That happy is somewhere ahead and sad will end once that line is crossed.
That walking past leaves it behind.
But even if those beliefs fit elsewhere, it doesn’t mean that they should be ours.
That those suggested words will know us or we them even with hope.
That unfamiliar colors won’t pull us back into yesterday’s games.
That we will run out of tears there.
That homes won’t be bruised once again.
But then neither do our own words with their two different feelings also close by.
In how yellow has taken more than its given even though being found seems happy.
In it not being easy to tend to weeds when flowers also need care.
In grief turning up even when we aren’t thinking about it.
In looking most often right even though there’s a left too.
If we are honest then, we aren’t just caught up in the shadows of our own words but also in trying to incorporate the script of others.
To breath within the pending while ignoring it in both the belonging and the loneliness.
To paint better blues even though we are still waiting for the right sky days to perfect our art.
To balance without being good at trusting in our sad like we show in the happy.
To travel documenting where we go without exploring everything left behind in our homes.
As if worth comes from having the right things between those two different feelings instead of us being the right people capable of cohesion in what’s between those two different feelings.
Remember though, a particular word doesn’t outsource its knowledge of us and exists as it does in our stories simply because we give it life with our debris as well as our flowers.
Have the best day, POSSIBLE for you. Love Always, Heavell
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