Monday, April 07, 2008
The trouble with Franz Kafka's work is that it is meant to be felt and not read.I find myself stuck in transience between the hazy surrealism of Kafkaland and the glaring self portrait of reality.I read a piece titled 'Meditation'; a collection of short stories and reverie from the ever-fleeting mind that conjured them. I wander helplessly from page to page; in search of meaning,logic or anything tangible. I am discontent and turn to the piece titled 'The Metamorphosis'. Since I am no stranger to 'The Metamorphosis', I devour it gleefully with a false and misleading sense of pride. I arm myself with the comforting sense of familiarity,little realizing that Kafka's words take new meaning every time they are read.Kafkaland is the only place in the space of imagination where a hopeless romantic, taking a walk in the clouds, can get consumed by his own romanticism.A life in Kafkaland is as superficial as its supposed depth. So here I stand, sensing that I am alive and kicking, till I am buried in the vanishing crust known as 'Kafkaland'.