1-one day, a boy came to his mother. He told her his friends at school swatted stones at him and he showed her a red bruise at his elbow. His mother patted it and said, “How did you reply?”
The boy shivered and fell into his mother’s arms, crying. “I smiled and told them I love you. I wish to have them as my friends.”
The door of his mother’s room flung open and the boy’s older brother walked in; he had overheard his brother and in reply, he said, “That’s because you’re weak. You were afraid to hit them back.”
The mother smiled at the older brother and said, “No, he simply spoke his heart.”
2-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.
These are sort of parables. My simple writing style stems out of my belief that in simplicity lies beauty.
The boy shivered and fell into his mother’s arms, crying. “I smiled and told them I love you. I wish to have them as my friends.”
The door of his mother’s room flung open and the boy’s older brother walked in; he had overheard his brother and in reply, he said, “That’s because you’re weak. You were afraid to hit them back.”
The mother smiled at the older brother and said, “No, he simply spoke his heart.”
2-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.
These are sort of parables. My simple writing style stems out of my belief that in simplicity lies beauty.