I met Kafka.
I met Kafka last night, somewhere between a dream and a place. He was sitting in a corner of my room that doesn’t exist in the daytime, reading a letter I never wrote.
“You think you’re the only one,” he said without looking up. “But I was too drowned in the thoughts I never chose.”
I told him my illusions weren’t just illusions they were callers, knocking every night, sitting heavy on my chest. He nodded like he knew them by name.
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“They tell me I am nothing,” I whispered.
Kafka folded the invisible letter and said, “They told me I was creep once.”
I laughed, maybe for the first time in days. He didn’t. “You laugh now,” he said, “but it will rot sweetly in your brain later.”
We sat quietly then, two haunts still breathing. I think he understood me more than I do. I think that’s why he left without saying goodbye.
And in that silence, I almost felt real.
