I once knew a woman who used to believe in inspiration. Rather, she used to live by the word. She was a quoter; she lived by the notion that the world was a melting pot of quotes. Her speech was hindered by clichés, yet she spoke with purpose. Her eyes were glistening reflection of what she perceived everyone as, filters for immorality. She lived in an illusion; she was an illusion.
She believed in the spirit of a person, in the way the spirit floated, in the way it could diverge from the physical being. She believed in bringing about a catharsis in people--that change was inevitable in every lost soul. She believed every person lived with a purpose in the world, that their niche was to change the world---for the better. She carried herself without a doubt, yet she unknowingly created many skeptics around her.
I often questioned the sincerity of the woman. Her kind heart and sing-songy words were sources of bliss for anyone she encountered; there was something surreal about it all, about her. She often told me I was her inspiration, and in tradition, I said the same to her. Yet, sometimes I considered her to truly be so. Her optimism reminded me of my own dreams---of reaching out for them. She was one of the few in the world who dreamt of changing others---and in my own selfish ways, I dreamt of changing myself.
I used to wonder about the woman’s childhood, about the source of her optimism. Perhaps she used her idealistic views on life to escape something that left her scarred---something that reminded her each and every day of the strife in parts of the world, of the internal conflicts within every person. In a way, she had her own solution for escaping this labyrinth of suffering. She followed the traces of the sunlight until she found herself closer to the end, stepping into the light until its blindness eased the pain and suffering of her life.