How do you know how small you are? The old man thought as he looked at the pond. He wondered to himself—do these fish know that life is represented only by the place they call home? Their lives are determined by birth, and their minds are wired only to survive.
He thought: are we fish, knowing only that the world is our pond? Can we escape the fate that holds us down, just like these fish who swim aimlessly, unaware that their freedom is only an illusion? They see only what they will ever see. That fish, swimming knowing it is fated to die where it was born, lives in a cage made by its own nature—born only to live one life, in one place, in one moment. Not seeing the stars, not understanding the truths of the universe, nor why they are what they are.
He said to himself one last time: are we fish, destined to be held by the very thing we call freedom? Are we truly free, or is it a cage?
…
The old man had been walking around the park, near the pond. He had lived a long life. He was fond of the little things, but his mind had granted him immense wisdom. Over the years, he had seen the world change, witnessed both the bad and the good. He was stuck, thinking about what freedom was to him and what his fate might be. The many years of retirement gave him time to write and understand his emotions. Though he was not a nihilist, nor a philosopher—just an old man questioning the world and its many mysteries.
He looked up and saw the sun coming down. It was past five p.m. Walking slowly with his cane, he thought to himself. Though his legs were showing the wear of age, his mind was strong, as were his sight and hearing.
He could hear many things—dogs, cats, and other animals. Then there were the children. As he watched them, he reminisced, thinking of his own childhood and the years leading to his present age.
Before he could find the answer to his thoughts, he heard something behind him.
"Watch out! Move away!" a boy shouted.
"Oh, no," the boy said, hitting his brakes.
The old man turned and looked back. No more than a few feet away, a young boy appeared. The old man could see him clearly—no more than ten years old, blue eyes, blond hair, sweat running down his face, eyes about to tear.
"I'm sorry, sir! I almost hit you, I was just…"
The old man said nothing, not even a flicker of fear.
"You didn't hurt anyone, young man. Take it easy… just be safe," he said.
He continued, smiling: "Looking at your speed and actions, it seems you're racing. Am I right?"
"Yes, yes, sir. I'm sorry," the blond boy said, feeling relieved.
"All good, young man. Be careful. It seems you're racing with friends—where are they?" the old man asked.
"They are taking different paths, but all racing to the same place," the boy said quickly, trying to end the conversation.
"Well, I don't want to take your time. Good luck on your race," the old man said.
"Thank you, sir," the boy replied, already moving forward.
The old man watched the boy ride away, noticing the distance growing between them. His mind stirred with a thought:
Different paths leading to the same place… is that what fate is?