The Old Man who Knew

The Old Man who Knew.jpg

There was a great carpet dwelling above the world. Inside it. Around it. It was conscious, yet not intelligent. Awake, but it did not think. One, a spectre of selves, everywhere and nowhere. No one knew how it worked, not even itself. It was pure observation. It knew, but did not calculate. It felt, but did not care. It was existence. Reality. Nothing more. Nothing less.

The old man sat by the window, looking out on the valley he’d lived in all his life. He knew everything about that valley. Every little rock, every old tree stump. He loved it. The valley was the best place on Earth for him.

He walked out on the porch. Watching the little lake. He knew the little lake. He the kinds of fish swimming in it. He knew how to catch them. He knew how which berries there was in the forest on the other side, which mushrooms he could eat and which ones he could not. He sat down on his old stool, as he had done so many times before.

He knew a lot. He knew how the flowers bloomed at springtime. How the hills exploded in colours in autumn. He knew how it felt to love and he knew the pain of hate. He knew the arouse of glory, the deep sorrow of loss. He knew. He knew a lot.

A cat came by. He knew the cat.

Hello, little cat, he said cheerfully. The cat came to him, stroking itself to his leg.

You’re a friendly little chap, aren’t you! Said the old man. The cat purred, enjoying the old man’s company.

He did not know if the cat was a he or a she, but knew it was not important for him to know. The cat was his friend, and friends were good to have.

He was old now. Very old. He knew life was coming to it’s end, and he wasn’t sad about it. He’d lived. He’d had a rich life, with sorrows and laughs. He wouldn’t have been without any of them. Even the painful ones.

Today he was looking out on the field in front of his house. Something dark was hanging over the grass. Over the trees. And he knew. He knew his time had come, he’d lived for a long time now. And he knew there was nothing to fear. As death came, he closed his eyes and accepted. Time had come.

A little frog opened it’s eyes in a swamp in Amazonas.



        1. Oh really? Let me know what you think!
          I just spew forth thoughts to exorcise my mind
          Haven’t really thought about whether I am a writer yet but maybe I am starting to believe I could be
          Thank you! 🙂

          Liked by 1 person

  1. Nice piece. It portrays death the way we should all view it; as a natural part of life. Sure, death comes in many different ways, some sadder and more unfortunate than others. But above all, I believe that death should be something we should discuss throughout our lives. The matter grounds us, humbles us and reminds us that we won’t be in this beautiful, sometimes painful, existence forever and so, like the old man, we must appreciate it to the fullest. Cheers!

    Liked by 1 person

  2. Apart from that apostrophe, I love the final line. (Sorry, but as a remedial writing teacher, misplaced punctuation stuff always gets me.) It’s bittersweet, but more sweet than bitter: the valley welcoming him to be a part of its cycle. Of course, it also begs the question: as the man has lived in this valley all his life, what was the man before he was born?

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Thanks! I’ll check out the error and change it, always good with some help 🙂 No one, not even him, knows what he was before the life as a man, and the frog knows what it needs to know to be a frog. The old man just knows there’s nothing to worry about 😉

      Liked by 1 person

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