“Failure is not in my dictionary,” I began in a defiant tone, “because I am a flyer of kites. In my hands, I hold the strings to hundreds, thousands, maybe even millions of kites. In all different colors. They dance around in the sky, soaring higher and higher without limits.
Sometimes though, the wind blows too hard, the kite goes the wrong way or perhaps someone cuts the string. That’s what you call ‘failure’. And this kite falls down, slowly. Slowly, ever so slowly, it falls from the sky and comes to rest on a lone tree. More of these ‘failures’ follow. More kites. Blue. Yellow. Orange. Purple. Shiny. Plain. Glittery. Bright. Pale. They completely envelop the tree’s branches. It shines in the morning light, eagerly boasting of its new guests. There’s beauty in this ‘failure.’ And there’s always victory in beauty.”
“Kites, eh?,” he began, ready to argue with me, “Kites are vulnerable, weak and without power. I’d rather be the tree with strong roots and ever-expanding branches.”
“Kites are not weak. They are free. They can go anywhere and see everything. I am the one that remains here, as the foundation, holding the strings but without motion. I stand as people say, hold my head as they wish, part my hair and paint my nails as THEY wish; I stand motionless but my kites are free. They soar to heights and show me the world. Bright worlds in bright colors. And they have the string, to come back to me, to their roots, to pull me along when I get behind.
Yes, I am a flyer of kites.
And my kites will fly to end of the world.”
Silence ensued. He had nothing more to say. Neither did I.