Who inspires you?
Literary characters inspire me. Real people do too, but not particularly many. My grandmother inspires me still. She is dead now. Which means I only have two people left in my life I feel I can really trust. It makes me sad, but it is still simply a reality. It has struck me that I perhaps take death a little differently than most others. Death is a fact to me, a simple, horribly cruel fact, but that is still all it is. It hurts of course, I don’t like to think about it, but that doesn’t mean I don’t always feel it. But she’s not the first person I’ve loved deeply who died without me there. It might not seem important to anyone else, but when I was eleven I had a small rabbit. He was so beautiful. So lively. So wonderfully innocent. Most likely he died because of my carelessness, and my abuser’s selfishness. I could barely smile for years. His death was was my first break. The first, and so far the only death that broke me.
And I think the rest simply felt like being abandoned, betrayed. I don’t know yet what that does about my trust issues, but I know that it likely doesn’t improve my ability to heal. It does replenish my nigh bottomless source of sadness, but many things do that. What it does though, and likely always has done, my trust issues, is make dead people, or people who never existed, my heroes.
And here I am. In love with several dozen men and women, who’s like there will never be. I hope it improves me, these high standards of thinking, of behaviour, of being, but it makes me fear for my future friend-circle. How ironic.