I apologise for not continuing the series on the “Kite Runner”. I went on holiday shortly after writing the first part and did not get round to it. I promise to finish.

I am writing today because I feel like writing. I want to talk to someone without actually talking to someone. You know what I mean. I want to just empty my heart and clear my head, the thoughts seem to be crashing into each other and I do not finish thinking about one thing before the other comes up.

And the very thought that I want to write out my thoughts brings about another thought (see what I’m talking about?)-why do I like writing? Why do I feel it brings release to me? Why am I talkative even when I am not talking with my mouth? And why, when I do write, do I do it on a blog for others to read? My answers are simple, I like to write because it gives me joy, it actually does bring release; release of feelings that seemed ready to burst out of me but that if I had shared by talking will seem incoherent. Why do I blog? Because I feel like I must share my thoughts, that maybe someone, out there would read what I write and say ‘I have felt that way before’, just identify with something I’ve felt or better, that I’d impact someone positively by what I write, even if not in a life changing way, just by making the person’s day that much sweeter, more beautiful…

I read a story somewhere about a little boy that was walking along a beach, he was throwing star fish back into the ocean and a man walks up to him and asked him what he was doing. He said, the tide was high earlier and had washed starfish unto the beach and if he left them on shore, they would die, so he threw them back in. The man said, “there are hundreds of starfish washed ashore, you can’t make much of a difference” and the boy took one little starfish, threw it into the ocean and said “for that one, I made all the difference”.

That story is why I write. Why I will not stop, till there is nothing in me to share (and that day will only come when I leave this world, after that I shall chat incessantly to God, He will never be tired of me and He is enough for all of us, so I will still have Him all to myself [the crashing thoughts again]). I refuse to be irrelevant. I refuse to live without making my mark. I refuse to be blessed by the beauty of this world, by the differences I see in people and the ability to think and see and feel that God has blessed me with and not express it. I realise there must be a reason why when I see beauty, I transcribe it in my head put a picture of it away. I put the picture away for a day that it does not feel so beautiful and I bring it out and stare at it. I refuse to be irrelevant. I refuse to be another statistic, the 80% that does nothing-in my small way, I am determined to make an impact: in my life and the life of others.

The impact that has been made on my life by great writers cannot be measured. I remember reading ‘The Desiderata’ as a young child and even now I see how it has shaped my thinking. It says at some point “do not compare yourself with others for there will always be someone lesser and greater than yourself”. This has helped me with envy and with pride-that someone is “better”, does not make me bad and who defines what is better anyway? Can there be only one better? And when I feel like the “better” one, I remember those that have “bettered” me-it keeps me grounded. It also says “even the dull and ignorant they have their own story”; so I have listened and learned. Though this has had the disadvantage of making me an old soul, I am older than my years and have never fitted in with my peers.

I remember ‘IF’ by Rudyard Kipling. In my early life, the portion that says “if you can trust yourself when all men doubt you, but make allowance for their doubting too”, helped me when I was trying to decide who “me” was. Where he said “if you can meet with triumph and disaster and treat those two impostors just the same”, has been instructive, I have always reminded myself in fortune that “this is from God and if He takes it, it goes back to Him” and in misfortune that “this too shall pass” and even if the pain is literarily heart wrenching, that the last pain did not kill me, so after this I’ll still be standing. Maybe with a limp but standing nonetheless!!!

I think very fondly of John Donne and his particular brand of humour. He said “death be not proud, though some call thee mighty and great, for thou are not so”, he goes on to say how death is a slave to time, to poison, the cuckold husband and the fool. In another poem he talks about his mistress who would not consummate their affair and how she got bitten by a mosquito that had bitten him and he implored her not to kill it, for in it their union was consummated. I don’t want to talk about Shakespeare, because in his works, I find a lesson for every situation, what can I leave out? “There is no art to find the mind’s construction in the face’, “neither a borrower nor a lender be’, ‘for the apparel oft proclaims the man’, ‘a rose by any other name will still smell sweet’, ‘to be or not to be, that is the question’, ‘the fault dear Brutus is not in our stars but in us for we are underlings’… I could go on but for fear of boring you to tears.

I love to read and like someone to whom much has been given, there is much to pour out. So I write. And I read. I read David in the Psalms, and I’m envious, how could a man love God so much. How could he express it with such beauty? How did he know then exactly what it is I am trying to say to God now? Why did he say it all? The thoughts are crashing, my head feels clearer, the burden lighter because I have shared with my pen and paper. Mouse and printer… you catch my drift.

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