Letters to Kafka | Aishwarya Roy

//𝘞𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘯 𝘬𝘪𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘴 𝘥𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯, 𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘥𝘳𝘶𝘯𝘬 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘣𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘵𝘴.

Wandering through the aisles

Of a second-hand bookstore,

I catch a whiff of a perfume,

Very familiar.

Sparks light up the sky and blood pours,

As the glory of paradise descends further

Behind the seam of the world.

I wear my rose-tinted glasses

And feel your heart beat a little faster,

While you hear mine outrace yours.

My eyes drift to the horizon.

The sky is pink

And the sharp prongs

Of bare trees

Have ripped a hole in the clouds. 

Through the wound,

The colours of winter

Bleed

And burn

My mind.

//𝘐𝘵 𝘰𝘤𝘤𝘶𝘳𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘐 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘤𝘢𝘯’𝘵 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘧𝘢𝘤𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘢𝘯𝘺 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘪𝘴𝘦 𝘥𝘦𝘵𝘢𝘪𝘭. 𝘖𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘢𝘭𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘧é, 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘧𝘪𝘨𝘶𝘳𝘦, 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘴, 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘐 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘴𝘦𝘦.

Your mind amuses me;

The way you think, the way words tumble, fumble out of your mind,

Like freshly squeezed orange juice.

You still manage to treat people like beautiful artifacts,

Objects you’d cherish to keep for the coming seasons,

Despite being treated like temporary mental notes, the messages people leave

In order to remember something.

//𝘐’𝘮 𝘵𝘪𝘳𝘦𝘥, 𝘤𝘢𝘯’𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬 𝘰𝘧 𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘵𝘰 𝘭𝘢𝘺 𝘮𝘺 𝘧𝘢𝘤𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘭𝘢𝘱, 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘯 𝘮𝘺 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘥 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘦𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘵𝘺.

You almost look like the crack of dawn,

Not a hair out of place

Brushed hair, perfect smile

Bright enough to stand out 

Among a hundred neon hoardings vying for attention.

You make the bustle pause and the traffic slow,

As I count my blessings with every beat my heart skips for you.

//𝘐 𝘤𝘢𝘯’𝘵 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭 𝘢 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨; 𝘈𝘭𝘭 𝘮𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘯𝘧𝘶𝘭 𝘱𝘦𝘵𝘢𝘭 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘮𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘥𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘷𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘴𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘺 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘥.

Tonight nobody is watching as we walk;

The shadows of two colloquial hearts tangling, bare.

Petrichor lurking in thin air.

Tonight nobody is watching as we dance;

To no music,

To nothing but the beat

Of our own hearts,

Across every street and boulevard,

As the lamp posts paint us neon.

//𝘠𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴.

(𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘐’𝘮 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘺 𝘯𝘢𝘮𝘦 — 𝘪𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘨𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘪𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘸: 𝘠𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴)

The pitch-black curtain slowly drapes

Over the sky.

Van Gogh wears wilted sunflowers in his hair,

And takes us to the quaint village

Of Saint Rémy.

He paints us the brightest starry night,

The fallen October leaves have ever seen.

Franz, your name is up in lights now,

But I’d still rather trace it in the stars.

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Written by Aishwarya Roy