The Old Man

I once –I forgot when exactly- met a terribly old man. He was someone I will never forget. He was like a walking library, he knew everything about anything. But even though he was like a big trophy to a little child, he was still hated by humanity. The only friend the man ever had were his books. His big, tall stacks of books. Since the day he could read he was carrying books with him. He never had any other friends. But still I wont ever forget him. No, I never will. He learned me everything about life.

One day, late midsummer, I decided to go to the old man's house. It was a dark, old house. The curtains were always closed. The front of the house was so very gloomy that if a perfectly happy person looked at it they would fall into a depression. But dear Lord, the backyard was so immensely beautiful! The sides were filled with beautiful roses in every colour, and the grass always seemed to be perfectly green. In the winters the yard was filled with bright white snow. The old man kept his garden like it was his own child, he put all his love in it. Which he had very much. The poor old man only couldn't give it to a single living human being..

While I opened the front door –which was always open, since no one would ever dare to come in- I was greeted by the words of a singer from another time, a time when music was music, not just a rehash from something which had been done before. It was a song about loneliness and depressions. Which was sad, since the poor old man only listened to music that told about his life.