A long time ago, a bestfriend hinted that maybe I don’t know how to love. I was a bit hurt by that. But I made it my business neither to verify nor dwell on that notion about myself. There were more important things to do. Her remark has lingered to this day.
No wonder it would take another dimension for me to find a certain happiness I can’t fully explain. Where there’s love, care, and specific matters of the heart. Does it matter if it’s real or not? I’m here anyway and I’m being sustained by it all for a while.
Anything, anything that would spur me to fill up a few blank pages. No, not just anything or anyone. Something, somebody with some substance and merit — regardless that he’s a third-rate version of you talent-wise. And I can’t believe I said that. But I tell it like it is.
Explanation not necessary, I know. Something in me still feels like saying “sorry.” We’re not in the real world anyhow. I’ve learned to be convinced by that.
…My one true love remains myself.—
Cassandra Clare, City of Bones