No one knew what the old man saw as he sat alone on his rocking chair by the porch of his house everyday. Passerby’s assumed he was taking in the evening air, or probably observing the little kids playing by the swings.
No one knew what was running in the mind of the old man.
People assumed he was old and lazy because all they ever saw him do was sit by his rocking chair and observe his surroundings. No one bothered saying hello or waving at him. They found him as synonymous as dust. Worthless and annoying.
At times, he would twitch, scratch his face, mumble something. Sometimes they would see him sleeping on the rocking chair. And when dusk came, and as the sun takes leave, the old man too, slowly ambles into his house where he turns off the porch light and shuts the door behind him. And when the sun comes up, he would be out again by his rocking chair, smoking a pipe.
What did the old man see? What was he waiting for? What was running in the mind of this old man?
Months later, this old man passed away.
And as the neighbors came to take a peek while the paramedics took his body away, they discovered this old man was a writer. For they found stash of papers, piled up on his old work table, next to a rusty old typewriter which surprisingly could still function.
And this man wrote stories about kids playing by the swings. Stories about men walking their dogs and women watering their gardens. Stories about the beautiful birds that sang beautiful pleasing melodies in the mornings. Stories of hope and love.
As they sat and read his stories one by one, they realised, how could a man, who only sat by his rocking chair from morning till dusk, could write such amazing wonderful pieces?
And that’s when it struck them. This old man lived in his own world. And they too, lived in theirs.