The gift of thought

I was well surprised to discover that I had regular readers of this blog, ranging from my Internet contacts to ex-colleagues and friends. Never thought the entries would be of much interest to anybody out there except the ultra-bored people who ran out of ideas on what to do.

Been on a writing streak of late, thanks to one of my favourite authors, the late James Clavell, the master writer who wrote the Asian Saga that were made up of classics such as Shogun and Noble House. Currently reading through King Rat and his style of narration sort of got me interested to put some entries here of my own, trying my hand in amateur autobiography of sorts.

The conversation with Little Me was something I picked up from school days, especially during language classes, be it BM or English. Open-ended essays had always been a favourite of mine as it gave me full license to write in whatever style I like to do. For some reason I just love to do them differently to what I perceive would be the common flow of student essays, especially those taught in classes. My essays are often picked as one of the several examples of how to or how not to do them - they're either brilliant or simply ridiculous, rarely something in between.

Narrations are my favourite styles of writing as it allows you to create a world through descriptive language, similar to that of painting a picture. The best part is that the brush is in your hands and it is up to you to decide what to show the audience. When done right, the audience is transported right into the very setting of your story, like a fly on the wall.

The Storyteller, a nickname given to me by some buddies, of the fictional kind but the type without malice as I would make it clear about how unrelated it is to real life. I learned from my association with the Scousers on RAWK of how making fun of yourself can often be amusing, especially if it is done in the honest yet ironic manner. I had Little Me making fun of the present me because of envy for his care and worry-free life as manner to tell what I am thinking then and also as a different method of presenting that thought.

I mean how many KTM stories can one conjure up (and stomach) anyway.

Sometimes I do wonder why I blog anyway - do I actually want people to read them? In short, I do, as a way to share my opinion about the world we all live in from my point of view, however insignificant I am as one of the three million inhabitants of this city. Perhaps I wanted to leave a legacy of my life for those in the future, I don't know.

Or maybe it's just what I enjoy doing.

Like a fisherman sitting at the jetty of a lake all day, waiting patiently for a bite that would or would not come, he wasn't merely fishing - he was conversing with nature and found solace in the gentle waves breaking the mirrored surface of the water, ducks floating leisurely amongst glittering diamonds of reflected morning sun.

It is presently 1:03 am I could only wonder about how awesome this thing called imagination is.

Each to their own, to theirs to shape, to theirs to create.

The gift of thought.