An evening and Kafka.

Cold evening. Early return from work. Nothing to do until tomorrow morning. I had this urge to read Kafka again, and so this evening, I began reading his diaries. Some music in background kept playing. It was slow music. Not classical though. It might have been blues. On the other side of street, one man talking loudly to another. I can hear his coarse voice despite all the windows and door of my bedroom staying shut. What’s the point in talking so loudly. People often mistake loudness with clarity. It’s foolish.

An excerpt from the diary –

“Finally, after five months of my life during which I could write nothing that would have satisfied me, and for which no power will compensate me, though all were under obligation to do so, it occurs to me to talk to myself again. Whenever I really questioned myself, there was always a response forthcoming, there was always something in me to catch fire, in this heap of straw that I have been for five months and whose fate, it seems, is to be set afire during the summer and consumed more swiftly than the onlooker can blink his eyes.”

Excerpt From
The Diaries of Franz Kafka
Copyright protected.

Approaching night. Red glow on my face. Itch in my hair. How much more will be read this night. How much more will be written before the morning knocks me down once again. It’s something even time cannot tell.

– Tomic Riter

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