The old man tapped away at his typewriter frustrated. It was not what he had wanted.
At a young age, he had to choose between his academic mediocrity and creative excellence. He had to chose mediocrity, for his parents, for his society and for the perceived future. He had worked as an electrical engineer, shuffling from job to job, never achieving economic stability.
He had to see his son struggle the same as he had only with a slight bit more of economic growth because of the advantage better education had given him.
He had retired ten years ago to applause and cheer due to the dedicated career he had led.
Now, he found himself at the end of his life, he had been diagnosed with cancer and only had a few months to live.
He sat in front of his typewriter which his daughter had gifted him knowing his passion for writing. He looked for inspiration but frustratingly, he found none. He knew, he had wasted his life, ran his creativity dry and left no legacy behind all for nothing.
He would be forgotten, he would have no face and no name. He would truly die in a few months. Despair set onto him as he clutched his hair tightly wanting to cry.
“Grandpa” said his grandson who had emerged from his room dazed. He was just an eleven year old kid and yet he was a brilliant one “why are you awake?”
“I have things to do” he said.
“They can be done tomorrow morning” said the boy.
“No, they can’t” he said as he looked down “I have miles to walk before I sleep”
The boy was taken aback as he understood what that meant.
“Do not worry” the boy said “you are going to live a much longer life”
“What is the point of living if this is my life?” he asked.
“What about me?” he asked “or father or sister or auntie or mother? Are we not the point?”
“I love you all and will forever be grateful for all of you but” he stopped himself “Never mind, go to sleep”
“I don’t want to” he said “I want to tell you a story that I just thought up of. Just like when I was younger, let us tell each other stories that we made”
The old man looked at his grandson and smiled “I can’t tell you a story because I can’t make one”
“You can” he said “you were the one who taught me how to tell stories. I refuse to believe that you can ever run out of creativity. Perhaps all you need to do in order to be inspired is to listen to my story”
The old man smiled.
“Do not let anyone make you anything other than what you want to be” the old man said. He felt a strange sense of satisfaction. The boy was his legacy. He was what he had been the most proud to make and the only thing he regretted was the fact that he would not be able to see him grow up.
The boy stayed silent. The old man ruffled the boy’s hair.
“Tell me your story” he said.