The lighthouse stood on a hill, a hill so high, and on it, he stood all alone. Years passed by, the grass had withered and dried, in its place new blooms came, but the lighthouse never got to be their friend. Up and above them all, he shone all night and slept all day long. He got lonely, he got tired, on days it rained, he too cried.

There were friends, but they were far away, bobbing on waters deep, they looked like balloons that had lost their way. Sometimes he felt they were almost there, but then they would see him and quickly go the other way. He felt it was his fault, probably it was the way he looked or was it the way he smelt? He knew he was different, the work he did, he knew was very strange. Never in his life, had he met someone like him. So was that the reason, he was made to stand on the hill?


Little did the lighthouse realise, how many lives he was saving, even though all he felt he was doing was shining his light. The work we do can seem small and meaningless, but for the ones caught in the storm, the light that shines through us can be the one that saves them from crashing in the rocks.


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