Two days to wake up from a nightmare called Odradek.
Five days to gasp in awe in the middle of a psychedelic Monet dreamworld.
Fifteen days to step into my very own reverie, if only for the blink of one summer.
Author: Olavia Kite
“No one, of course, would occupy himself with such studies if there were not a creature called Odradek.”
—Franz Kafka, The Cares of a Family Man
All my worries, my fear and my rage, are contained in the hermetism of seven letters. What are you, Odradek?
Today a guy with moles around his nose and mouth pointed at a tiny calendar and informed me of the date I am to pick up my ticket to go home.
Oh, how gladly will I walk down the street under the blazing sun that day!
Clothes hanging on a terrace in Toledo. Clouds of pink and powder blue, ethereal Monet fading in a horizon where the future’s being built out of haze and white lines. My mind dives into the warm shades of the bricks and tiles and painted walls, escaping from the ever-so-green summergreen slithering green flying green melting underneath this rain of liquid steel. The apostles in the cathedral are debating tomorrow’s news, but nobody in town could talk about what’s going on with me today. And nothing moves around me, as if the world made of stone were this and not that, not that corner amid the thorny tower that reaches for the sky.