hello reader,
fuck you. and i hope that this unbearable comic that is life is hitting you with more laughs than you can sustain. you know the kinda of laughs that emanates from your tummy and you're trying so hard to stop but the more you resist it, the harder the laughter. so that you can feel you eyes tearing up and in that moment nothing truly matters; because that is the raw description of life.
i have been away from my keyboard with kafka, basking in the near impossibility of explaining myself to myself, while trying to give an answer to whomever asks me 'who are you?'
who am i?
“I cannot make you understand. I cannot make anyone understand what is happening inside me. I cannot even explain it to myself.”
have you read kafka? Good.
you haven't? What have you been doing with your life? i will judge you if you at any time you've called yourself a "reader" and you've never read kafka. i will never take you serious if you've read kafka and he didn't stick to you. i wouldn't take me serious also.
this musing is in memory of kafka who was born on the 3rd day of this month in 1883. kafka who wrote the metamorphosis and the trial and still ended up burning 90% of his writings because of his struggle with self-doubt. that man is an enigma and an open book.
franz kafka that is it. franz kafka!
you can doubt yourself, burn yourself but never be so chickened to express yourself. until next time punch some face!
