in them, i recognize my own loneliness, my uncertainty about where i belong, and my fear of being misunderstood. it is the feeling of moving through life with unanswered questions, and wondering whether anyone could ever truly get me & see what i’m trying to say.
i realize now that authors like camus, kafka, dostoevsky, and orwell must have carried immense pain within them. their works - the stranger, the trial, white nights, and 1984 - hold a quiet melancholy i didn’t fully understand before. now it feels painfully familiar.