Dear Sir Stranger ,
I was sitting at the food court today while thinking of what to do. While in deep thinking, I suddenly noticed you. You seem to have just finished lunch. A man in his late sixties, maybe. You are wearing that blue striped polo shirt with ragged jeans. You are wearing that gray cap, but I still can see your grayish hair.
What caught my attention is you holding a pen and a notebook. In my mind, I was thinking. What is this old man doing? Is he a writer? What could he be writing? Is he writing his diary? Seriously?
Because of my curiosity, I tried peeking more… You have written almost all of the pages, with nice cursive writing. You labeled page numbers on upper part of your red notebook. Some of the pages, the first ones have been written, middle pages are blank. The last page has been filled.
I know you know I took notice of you. I don’t know why I am staring as well. You flip the pages of your notebook. Then stop writing. Then into deep thinking.
I was puzzled of what are you thinking?
Words. Lines. The next scenarios. I took my phone and secretly took a photo of you. I was nervous while taking the shots. You might catch me and ask me why I am taking a picture of you. After two successful shots, you threw a glance at me. I panicked. Pretended to be doing something else.
Then you kept on writing again. I wanted to know what you are writing. You seem to be at peace. I saw the passion in your face. What are you writing?
After a few minutes, my attention was directed to my damaged shoes. Poor shoes, it cannot walk too far. Seconds. I looked at the table you are sitting at.
You are gone.
I looked around, searching for you. And you were there, walking, heading somewhere I don’t know.
You were there, walking, holding that red notebook.
I wanted to asked you, what are you writing?
But you were gone.
And I flipped my own notebook and started writing.
Today I met a stranger.