prose & poetry by chia

seeing kafka

I’ve always adored the stillness of a room. I wouldn’t call it a silence—for there is no such thing as silence. But rather, an empty room is a space of stillness, of matter suspended. It is vacant yet serene, with the lightness of the air bearing the promise of comfort for the hollow soul standing in the middle of it—waiting, waiting; still waiting to be filled with the same kind of stillness—that certain stillness of the room. 

Sometimes I find myself looking at a certain object—however, I don’t think I’m ever looking at all, but rather merely burning a hole fixating my sight on these objects. The spine of a book, the wood on my bookshelf that is painted white, the surface of my desk, the pitch-black sky; with my mind void of thoughts. I’m left there pondering about nothing, yet my eyes are focused on something, but free of the worry of thinking. In those moments I feel entirely placid.