Once upon a time we cried our eyes out. We were hungry. We were tired. We just wanted someone to hold us and kiss our heads and tell us it would all be ok. It would All Be Ok. 

Then we got older. We were told to stop crying. We were told to study, to respect our elders, to follow rules. We were told to be successful, to try harder, to listen and to do. 

One day we became busy, we found lovers, or we didn't. We aimed high, we felt happy, we felt miserable. We wanted to cry our eyes out, and on some really bad days, we found out that lying on the floor folded in half sobbing while trying to catch a breath really wasn't a movie cliche. It was real, and it hurt a lot. We stopped answering our phones for while, because while help might have been around the corner, we had never felt more alone. 

 "Pull yourself together" the collective voice said. You need to function in society, to play well with others. Others won't receive you well if you're always a mess. 

Well fall the fuck apart, we say. Somewhere, buried under your sunkissed skin is a heart that beats wildly. It's bloody and it's wet and it's a little gory. It's stopped feeling supported and you probably stopped listening to it somewhere along the way.

We think it's beautiful in its messiness, and know that sometimes it still wants to cry and scream, even though other times it's overjoyed. It's ok. There's a place for the sadness and the spillage. 

Listen to it. Feel it even when you think you might combust. Send it our way and let's make art of it.