Youngs and Olds

The being raised from the bench and walked slowly down the road. A grey jacket. Grey boring shoes and a hat. It seemed to have troubles walking. One foot slowly to the front of the other. I lifted my head to have a better look. It noticed and slowly moved its eyes to the side where I sat. Experienced eyes, it seemed. Well, well and have a nice day you too; I nodded and smiled. A wooden stick accompanied its right hand. It had two hands, just like me. Shivering legs. Suddenly it paused. The back was crooked, and it had to lean backwards in order not to fall when standing without the support from his stick. Unshaven cheeks revealed that it was a he. He coughed.


A content look he had. Perhaps that was about the only nice feature I could find with him. His hand went into the pocket fishing out a handkerchief. He blew a runny nose and slowly put the handkerchief back into the same pocket. He stumbled a couple of steps more and sat down on a bench towards the other end of the road I was looking down. In the dead end he sat, and he was an Old. Suddenly it all felt so unfair. There are two kinds of humans on earth, beyond male and female. Youngs and Olds. I was born a Young, and luckily so. I mean; I sat there and praised myself lucky to not be born an Old. Sadly that’s what I really did, I think. After all they are so different from us Youngs. So slow and…. dead. Olds and Youngs. So unfair to be partitioned that way. Especially when there is nothing you really can do to change the way you are. Deep inside I did what I think all Youngs do in meeting an Old: I pitied him. Pitied him for being so unlucky in the lottery of life.  Felt bad for him to not be a Young like me. How unfair. What would an Old know about the joys of life? Youngs and Olds. The difference between the two could hardly be any greater.

Yet — there wasn’t more than an Old mans short walk separating us, but I couldn’t see it. I simply didn’t see it.

Published by PenOfBen

A seeker of truth.

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