A short piece about writing, inspiration, memory and candles.
My mum once told me that the greatest gift I could ever receive lived within the pages of a book. Of course, at the time, I didn't appreciate what she meant and was convinced a new bike was a much better gift. But over the years as I've steadily ploughed through countless volumes of text, I've grown to understand the importance of those words. For it is words and the stories they create that have opened the door to what I call a fulfilling life.
Of course having a loving and wonderful wife and being the father of a rambunctious but overwhelmingly amazing son more than contribute to that life. Indeed, they along with so many others I am so grateful for having experienced the briefest of time with, have left and continue to leave an indelible mark on the way I look at the world and the potential that lies within it.
And it is the time I spend with these people that has the greatest impact on my outlook in life. People are life — there's no two ways about it. Sure some are ordinary, others are downright nasty, but each has a story and stories are the fabric that tie us all together. After all, when we're all just ashes and dust or cryogenically frozen heads in jars, what's left of us other than our stories?
So when you're not seeing me slurping through my eighth coffee of the day or yelling foul-mouthed insults at whomever is playing against one of my football teams (for the record, those teams are Hawthorn, Melbourne Victory and poor old Blackburn Rovers), I am looking for the story in everything I see, making small, hastily prepared mental notes and hoping that some day I will get to write as many of these stories as possible.