They could break my heart and all my bones, and I would still love people, in general, with all their trivialities and futilities. I will do it not because of what they do but only because of who I am. And if I am often angry at the state of the world, even if ever-so-slightly, or at how people do things, it is because I know all of us, myself included, could be so much more. I do not know if there are other worlds and whether I am someone else in them. But here, in this one, it is my only purpose: to love, to love and to love, to forgive endlessly, to only look at the best in people, and to beg and plead for us to be better, hoping someone listens.
And for this very reason, I had a muse in all people I met. If there was a secret to my writing, not that there is one that is warranted for these words are nothing special on their own, it’s that there are always people around me, and I often steal a thought or two. And because of that, I will always have something to write. I will always have something to say because people always have something to say. They often tell writers to find time to sit and write at a particular time of day, to make a ritual, to find the muse there, but it’s not always like that. The muse is not some legendary fairy; it is but a reliable assistant. Even if you don’t pay attention, it silently scribbles notes into its trusty notepad. It walks with you like your shadow, and then, when you sit down to write, it reminds of you things you did not even watch properly.
That is the secret I have uncovered over these few months. This is what I have learned about myself in this changing of seasons. Other people are an irrevocable part of who I am, and it will always be this way. Till the day I am writing, I will need others around, and as long as there are others around, I will be able to write. And in this loop, I shall live my life until the end of my days, and caught in this loop, I shall remain a writer.