A tale of Kafka and Christmas

Ah, there you are- fighting your loneliness, the tiresome question of all, why is there Christmas? Why this day wouldn’t get away?

And there you are trying to not become sad and lonely, seeing yourselves playing the best part, like a lonely mouse trapped in the epithelium of the cold sky. The night sky is excreting Christmas.

They say even the wind grieves the loss of soil, but a mouse grieves its loss more than a teardrop severed from all kinds of sadness does to the soil.

A mouse is proof of rebirth, a promise of life after an eager load of meteors wiped out the dinosaurs; soil to what hungers for food, ground for existence, abyss for destiny.

This is their time to be sad. These rats. It’s the weather; it’s the glimpse of eternity coming- day 1 of the future death of deaths, the resurrection that would rat-nations trust God for the economy of bloodshed again, make rat-people believe in destiny, make them forthright about their desire for oppression.

But glad to think they are irreverent of joy! These rats. Or the ones that matter. They too are capable of changing men. Men who became men so that they could become apes. Only apes jubilate in Christmas so that Christmas could become man again.

It took Kafka to open our eyes to this weirdness. Either stop writing or write like a rat. Rats are contact zones for Christmas- you either become an ape and become man again or become an impersonation of agony when rats become poisoned of joy and Christmas.

Let’s say we will never again be poisoned by men!

Aren’t we too capable of poisoning their Christmas?

To Kafka then!

Christmas, here we come!

Merry Christmas to all!

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