#kafkaesque
I think too much, but thinking is a door I cannot help but open, again and again, even knowing it leads only to corridors that collapse behind me. Beneath the thin surface of my life — the painted, polished life that smiles, nods, reassures — there is only the drop, the plunge into depths where no light has ever wandered. Something stirs there, half-formed, half-remembered, and when I lean close enough, it whispers in a voice that might be mine.
I patch myself together for the world’s gaze, arranging my features, my gestures, my words — but inside, it is different. Inside, the paint runs, the colors bleed, and the brushstrokes flail like broken limbs. I am not the painting they think they admire. I am the pallet left out too long, cracked and sticky, crawling with insects no one bothers to swat away.
Sometimes, in the narrow, shivering hallways of memory, the faces of the forgotten appear. They do not accuse. They simply watch. In the trembling candlelight, their outlines blur, and for a terrible moment, I cannot tell them apart from myself.
I tell myself I am not deformed. I repeat it, mouth dry, heart rattling its cage. But somewhere between the thought and the mouth, it curdles into a confession. We are all deformed. We are all stitched from scraps, animated by borrowed regrets, jolted upright by the lightning of other people’s hopes. Mary Shelley could have written our names long before we were born.
And yet — somehow — from the slow, grinding guilt of our existence, compassion seeps. Not cleanly. Not brightly. But it seeps, like water through the cracks of a sinking ship. If we can bear to look at what we are — if we can hold our own trembling, monstrous hands — perhaps it is enough. Perhaps that is all there ever was.
Apr 26, 2025
Apr 26, 2025 at 8:10 PM UTC
White Lily takes her white knuckles to bed
After sweet Lily spends the day locked inside her own head
Little Lily just likes to feel a little silly --
Intoxicated by the weight of words she never even said
Past, present and future
Shoot through the floor
Tying knots around her wrists and
White Lily takes her white knuckles to bed.
Aug 21, 2022
Aug 21, 2022 at 10:46 PM UTC
Mundane concerns stifle
the soul that hungers for the infinite
Practicality subverts the mind
as it questions and wrestles with
this existential enigma...
Bound by the curse of productivity
and the insatiable drive for accumulation
Libidinal, perverse thoughts
drive the working man
to this, to that...
he is a puppet pulled by invisible strings:
the corporate, bureaucratic masters
calling the shots
laughing control freaks...
the world is theirs for the taking
and the worker-slave raises his hands
a sense of triumph
as the crumbs fall down
We live in a Kafkaesque era
merrily languishing
in this willful dementia.
Jul 10, 2020
Jul 10, 2020 at 9:36 PM UTC
:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧*
the day ends
singing to us
ourselves to
each-other
of the hour
to a minute
on the clock
we drink roses
for fading embers
the burning match
that proverbial breath
the familiar pull
towards dreams
towards sorrow
the pain
the joy
from
dust
to
dust
emptiness
orderliness
indifference
mounds of gold
ignorant shiny
pile of ashes
enlightened
afterthought
in the morning
in the evening
all the beauty
is all suffering
living forever
dying together
hands over fists
:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ
Jul 3, 2018
Jul 3, 2018 at 2:03 AM UTC
Kafka was in town,
in disguise he went around
was terribly pleased!
Apr 14, 2017
Apr 14, 2017 at 11:11 PM UTC