Death and Life

Today I killed a cockroach. It was huge. Whenever I see one it reminds me of Gregor Samsa in Kafka's Metamorphosis. Imagine you wake up one morning and find yourself transformed into a giant bug. Not a friendly bear or a talkative dog, but a monstreous insect. Everyone would hate you, detest you and try to kill you. Just like I killed that cockroach.

I came home at night and found it in my room. I switched on the lights, threw my bag on the ground and approached my desk. And then I saw it, running from the paper bin to the chair. I let out a silent fuck! and grabbed the wet paper towel mop that was standing next to the door. The beast was hoping I didn't see him, I could tell. But it was too late. 

Maybe it's my own fault, though. I chose this part of the city, this neighbourhood, and ultimately this apartment for a reason. For several reasons, in fact. And I don't regret my decision. At this point in my life that's just how I live. I eat my cereals out of a cooking pot, I stirr my coffee with a fork, and I brush my teeth over the sink in the kitchen. It's humble, and I like it like that.