The world is a big place. Farmers in the inner reaches of China will never know that there was once a bloke in a medium town in England called Colin.

It seems awfully preposterous and presumptuous to believe that I can change the world. It is the drop thinking that it can change the ocean. It is the grain of sand thinking that it can change the Sahara. I don’t want to change the world. I don’t think it’s possible to change the world.

I want to write something poignant, scary, funny, sad, or just interesting that cause the electrons that fire synapses in a certain way in people’s brains.

I want to be the little lever that tips the trickle from the set path to an alternative one. If I’m very lucky, the trickle will become a stream, and the stream will become a river, and the river will become the fricking Amazon Delta.

It seems to be a more realistic, manageable goal. It seems a more human goal. The future is not set in stone. Fate is a lie. Life is trickles, little butterfly wings that may cause a hurricane in six months time, or in a lifetime.

Or it may just be that one man, woman or child choose a different path. I’m happy with that, although I’ll never know.

Like the farmer in the inner reaches of China, I’ll never know about the person that took my word, made the word his or her own, and changed.

I am all right with that.