Oh hey a Bohrok post after weeks (I have been de-energized recently, maybe some protodermis will help) Also Av-Matoran horror story, probably

fatima aamer bilal, excerpt from moony moonless sky’s ‘i am an observer, but not by choice.’

[text id: i often asked myself / do i want love / or do i want proof that i am loveable?]

Do not waste your time looking for an obstacle - maybe there is none.

Franz Kafka

When you stand in front of me and look at me, what do you know of the griefs that are in me and what do I know of yours? And if I were to cast myself down before you and weep and tell you, what more would you know about me than you know about Hell when someone tells you it is hot and dreadful? For that reason alone we human beings ought to stand before one another as reverently, as reflectively, as lovingly, as we would before the entrance to Hell.

Franz Kafka

Franz Kafka, Letters to Felice

-Franz Kafka [ Letters to Milena // The Metamorphosis]

Why don't some people not understand poetry?

Maybe they try to logically counter the words.

Poetry is a form of art, it can only be felt within oneself. It shows us a higher truth in a non-literal way hence, trying to find literal certainty while encountering poetry doesn't really help.

This can be understood through music. A Good music always starts with it's lyricism and lyrics are nothing but poetry composed by the artist. We don't think logically about our favourite music while listening to it, we feel it. We feel it's rhythm. We feel it's lyrics. And poetry should be treated the same way.

from the diaries of franz kafka

snoopy as gregor samsa

when kafka said ‘you wouldn’t believe the kind of person I could become if you wanted it’ and when brontë said ‘if you ever looked at me with what I know is in you, I would be your slave’ and when Sartre said ‘if I’ve got to suffer it may as well be at your hands’

— December 18, 1913 / Franz Kafka diaries

I know it is my father's first time on this Earth, too. And I know He had it worse when he was little.

But I was little too.

— Franz Kafka, from letters to his father