Some complaining followed by prose-poem inspired by Kafka’s idea that civilised life is in some ineffable sense akin to a living death.
For me, even the successes feel valueless. The whole edifice of civilised life, galls my sensibility.
Nothing of it strikes me as substantive. All of its attendant desires, accomplishments, milestones – so cheap. The lurid vanity of it, drains the tenderness in my heart.
One goes to cup from its well only to find its glassy waters pass through one’s hands.
* * *
Nothing, nothing, nothing, my passions come to Nothing. Anemic-souled somnambulist, reborn under starless skies, walks the silly streets of an orphaned world, thronged on either side by the alien faces of hostile dwellings, curtained-up and slanting forward, til at road’s end spots a low window – bare and lightless. Coming on its forbidding face, peers in, and sees the living Death that was his life, his and everyone else’s; he sees how the forces beneath the surface of this twilight realm were those that culminated in the grave – dismal alchemies that petrify the spirit, blot out the sun, and cover the stars.