Where does it come from?
It’s a beautiful thing. It speaks to us in so many subtle ways, that others may not understand. When we see a sunset, a flower, a gentle caress of the hand to comfort another. In a smile, a child running amuck (though then the inspiration is to kill).
Inspiration can be warm. It can come from the gentlest and most peaceful of places.
But it is not always so gentle and sweet.
Sometimes the things that inspire us are absolutely brutul.
It is rough. It is cold. It is merciless.
Tear you to shreds, poison you, drain you of colour. It leaves you in a pile of your own blood, screaming, tears and mucus leaving you in an utter mess as glass shreds slash you and fire burns all around you. There is no more air to breathe, smoke is all that you can see, smell, it’s clouding your mind as you slip away.
It is interesting, to say the least, what paths inspire in us from this. The inspiration may be draw closer to your pack (alternatively known as family or kin, but I prefer to use the term pack as it is currently helpful to my mental health), draw closer to friends. Some find it inspires going to religion. Others find it inspires leaving religion where inspiration of peace is also found.
Inspiration is beautiful. It is a broken, scarred mess. It is gentle. It is brutal. It is whatever form it needs to be to help you find your own true path, no matter what that path is.
To some onlookers, it might be a mystery, maybe a riddle, but it is ultimately a sign.
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