They say that in order for moments to be forgotten, we must stop thinking about them.
To cease feeling the fragments of the battles that continue to slip into our breath.
And so, we take a chance on this moment or the next or the next as being the place where happy finally awakens to stay.
Reveling in the idea of shutting out the noise with the ordinary and hope while on grounds that refuse to be silent about memories.
Voices that tell us to quit even though we don't remember exactly how they came to be qualified to decide that.
And yet they are firmly seated in "we were not made for happy".
Their directive always given whether or not there is something to grieve.
Their rumors of our being out of place, spreading like fire while compassion requires permission to even be considered.
Their patterns of disqualifying begun long before the pieces of moments got as big as they are now.
Trimming us down as if our natural features are not found in any of the concepts of gardens that please.
Making homesick as close as we can get in dreaming of the power of happiness.
Imagine then, moving forward only to discover that past relationships have gotten loose and are following.
Or looking for something that has already been quietly discounted from being found.
Or trying to believe in love while streaming the undeserving ballads that keep it away.
Or the disillusion of wishing for what could be and wondering why things have to be a certain way for it to show up.
Because what subtly emerged over the course of a lifetime of moments was the deeply rooted idea that we were not worth caring for.
But a lifetime of heavy and lonely isn't deserved nor is it meant to be the permanent well of a garden or the continued voice of pages.
Words are only words with open doors that harbor the flow of our things as well as those that belong to others.
And the truth of what breathes changes when understanding that thoughts and feelings overstay their welcome because we think there is nothing else hidden in their colors.
Art is messy, along with gardens and writings, but those natural features don't automatically separate us from love or happiness unless their touches decrease our awareness of being worthy of care too.
Have the best day POSSIBLE for you. Love Always, Heavell
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