I made a decision from the stance of a twisted heart. One with no end or beginning, the kind of knot you get in a rope when you leave it in the shed for too long without tending. Somehow, when the doors open in spring, it’s always knotted and you wonder what little fairies are living in your shed messing with your ropes.

I suppose a heart is like that, though. If it’s left alone in its shed for too long without proper care, the fairies knot it up. They knot it up so bad that you have no choice but to peer inside; as the knot has somehow grown and touched those closest to you, knotting them in ways they don’t want nor need, attaching them to your heart in inappropriate ways.

I don’t see hearts as ropes, I don’t believe they are one long idea. I see them more as a body of water or the open sky. Expressing how it needs to and when it needs to, marching to the tune of it’s own drum. They are one thing and all things. They are everywhere and seemingly invisible to some eyes for that reason. These are hearts. And the water of the heart that twists into a rope, grows into something that has been damaged and is damageable. Yet, just like a storm: the waters that cast the waves blazingly to shore or the skies that roll and fold darkness to open screams of cold, hold beauty. Just differently beautiful. They are still water and sky, just a twisted up version. Their true identity stays rooted, will always stay rooted to the truity of a piece of art.