The proud painter
A complete stranger stopped me in the street. He wanted to show me a painting he had made. To be honest, it didn't look very good.
But he wasn't trying to sell it. He was just so happy and proud that he had created it. I smiled, agreed, and moved on.
Who does something like that? There didn't seem to be anything wrong with him. On the contrary, he looked happy and full of life.
He was five years old.
Sometimes I wish we, "the grownups", were more like kids, like "the mysterious people". That's what they're called in a beautiful Swedish song from the 60s:
There a worthless thing becomes a treasure
There beds become ships one night and sail to the moon
There are kingdoms none of us can take away from them
All are children, and they belong to the mysterious people