I had started to count kindness on my fingers. If you were like me, you barely got enough of it to fill in one hand, but I took what I could; I still do. I had learnt to lick it in scraps, taking whatever I could and storing it in a jar made of hope and I took a bit more out of it than I should have every time I was told I wasn’t enough. Which was every day.
We live for the people around us. If we are scared of death, it is only in part because of the pain, the rest is a mind-numbing fear of losing what we know, who we know. There is family, there are friends. But sometimes, we find that relationships form in the most unlikely of places. It might be a negative one, no matter. Only, we might never fully comprehend the depth of it till we face a void that cannot be filled, till death and damnation. Can hate cause a wistfulness as potent as love?