Where I sit, there is always a small photo of Kafka facing my chair. If I look up, he’s just there looking at the wall behind me. Sometimes the photo falls on the book shelf (since it has no frame, no support, nothing to hang onto) and I lose my view of Kafka, or maybe this is just him losing me.
Some other time, it is pushed back against other books, covered with dust and forgetfulness. This way, when I’m alone, there is no echo reflecting my solitude.
There are moments when my eyes catch his remote expression as if he’s not here, and I wonder where else I could be.
Kafka has always been my hero, a hero who never saved my life.