Every now and then, when I come home at night, in the window in my room, I would see an old man. He usually sits on a green chair, in front of a green wooden door, surrounded by beautiful blue hydrangeas. He usually has one leg over the other, with his left arm on his lap, like he was waiting for me, with his right hand raised to say hello and a casual "hello" kind-of expression on his face.
Hello, old man. Good to see you again. I would sometimes say. But he never says anything back. And he fades away.
I didn't know him before he died. Those who did would often sing his praises and say he was funny and describe a couple of his odd habits. I always feel an affinity towards him, although I can't quite put a finger to it, but I suppose that's why he appears at my window anyway.
Perhaps anybody who have heard about him from anybody who knew him would feel an affinity towards him. Perhaps, he's just that kind of personality. I wonder if I'd like to be somebody like that - interesting, funny, clever, probably, and likeable - but I think a lot of these traits are inborn.
I suppose, sometimes, life is like that. What they may sometimes call "unfair"... which by the way, is a concept created by whom? Life is never fair, what. From the moment of birth, one may be funny or not, or a boy or a girl, or Asian or African... to the moment of death... by cancer, by premature birth, by tumbling down the stairs... since when was life ever fair?
If the old man would ever speak, maybe this could be something that I would seek his opinion on.
Until then, I'd just leave it as - sometimes, life is like that.
(sneak.)
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