For those who do not feel the need to make sense of the world, it serves them well. For others, the poets, the artists, they tell their stories in an attempt to make some sense of the world they live in, if only for themselves. This, in small part, explains how art is born.

Listen to Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata, stare at Picasso’s Guernica, or read Camus’ The Stranger to get an idea. They were all composed whilst the artist was attempting to make sense of the world.

The writer may have come to their craft because they’ve realised that, at heart, they are outsiders, their immediate world is alien to them and therefore need a method of expressing that alienation. Other endeavours act merely as weigh stations until the realisation hits that the time has come for them to try and talk themselves out of it.

For although everyone has a story to tell, not everyone has the facility, or the time, to tell that story. Sometimes it’s given to others, knowing that the stories must be told, because we need them, subconsciously we know we need them, to sustain us.

What is certain is that while some are busy making the most of the world, there are others trying to make sense of it. What is also certain is that the talent being applied to this effort can overcome almost anything, even encouragement.