We refuse the few moments of pure joy from former cracks in the conversation of what has been deemed ours as sad verses of experiences. What we were born into-the molds, the cards we are dealt. The protection of those padded walls surely contain with a soft firm grip the true order we are born to carry. Truth never flowing out from within. Never leaving a crooked line, an overflowed jar, a scribbled smudged line (replaced by another), a torn perfect piece of canvas soiled. Joy and sadness come from the same moment. Blocking one clear trickle, and yielding to clouds, funnels doubt into waterfalls of regret. When creating from a place of joy, the flip of that stays dormant. Find your dormant one, hold it in place, use it for good. Anger it. Pain passes.. Never wins. Happiness is eternal.