Franz Kafka.
I have heard the name before. I have read the banger of quotes he dropped. I have never read a book by him. I never knew the kind of life he lived. I knew nothing about him except the name. That changed today.
I learned how he grew up, the emotional abuse at the hands of his father, constant neglect, and feeling of being a misfit throughout his life. He also had an endless struggle with poverty and women. Then it all ended in terrible way by hand of tuberculosis.
The tragedy, as it is with many artists, is that they live miserable lives only to become legends long after they’re dead. Franz Kafka’s story is similar to Van Gogh’s. They both suffered. They were both treated badly by society. They both never truly understood how good they were. The world never appreciated them until they were six feet deep in the ground.
They were unappreciated and that didn’t stop them. They were poor, miserable, and looked down upon. They had everything going wrong and still kept on pursuing that one thing that felt theirs.
All of this makes me wonder: am I doing anything that I will ever be remotely remembered for? Am I creating anything that will bear my name once I’m gone? Will there be anyone other than my close family ever taking my name? Will I be just a speck of dust, made of dust, returned to dust, and never to be remembered ever again? The way things are at the moment, unfortunately, the latter seems most likely the outcome.
I’ve known an undeniable fact for many years. I’ve written it down. I’ve admitted it to myself. I’ve admitted it to others. If I had all the money I needed to sustain myself and my family, if I never had to work another day in my life, if I could do whatever the fuck I wanted all day long, I would write. I think that’s who I am when you strip away all the layers created by society. That’s the personality most closely aligned with my soul.
I’ve had health scares before. I’ve had phases and situations in my life where I wasn’t sure how tomorrow will be. Whenever I’ve had an existential crisis, I’ve felt the fear of dying without reaching my writing potential. That’s one talent that feels natural to me.
I have known that for a while. This isn’t new realization. Unfortunately, there’s always an excuse. There’s always something else that requires urgent attention, has higher priority, or provides bigger immediate return. That’s life getting in the way. I don’t know how long it will continue to be so. I don’t know if that’s how it will be forever. I don’t know. I hope that’s not the case. I hope I can change that.