One evening, while I was walking down an empty street, wondering how I can get the world to hail me as the next Hemmingway, an old man appeared out of a near alley. He wore nothing but a patchy coat, and a disjointed pair of glasses. He approached me, arching over his staff, and touched my hand.
“Don’t worry boy,” he said, “seeking attention is like seeking your shadow; the more you try to catch it, the more it flees. The only way to touch it is to fall on your face.” He smiled and vanished back into the alley.
I stood motionless. How could he read my mind? How he knew I wanted the world to see me?
On my way back home, I realized that it was useless to know how he read my mind. What was important was to work on his words. I looked at my shadow against the asphalt and smiled. I would never catch it.
“Don’t worry boy,” he said, “seeking attention is like seeking your shadow; the more you try to catch it, the more it flees. The only way to touch it is to fall on your face.” He smiled and vanished back into the alley.
I stood motionless. How could he read my mind? How he knew I wanted the world to see me?
On my way back home, I realized that it was useless to know how he read my mind. What was important was to work on his words. I looked at my shadow against the asphalt and smiled. I would never catch it.