Ever since I started reading Agota Kristof’s novel, something has changed. The novel gave me a different meaning to words. Most people write to be valued; so much of what is written is embellishment, and I feel that I must strip it away to see what’s beneath: the raw thing. But reading her novel, I noticed that the word itself could be the end. To write is the end. And I feel her passion and joy through the words she left, in such inexplicable strife.

What if I wanted the same? And wanted strife? To be?

Perhaps I should follow the way of the Rafflesia and pretend to be rotten meat in order to survive. And so I met a fly. And we fell in love. (But that’s all in my imagination. And his.)

While I’m working, I stop breathing. I start to function—the little function that I have. In a way, I die a little while working, but without this death, it’s hard to feel the joy of living. When I was working as a waitress in a café in a not-so-hip town, I used to read poetry in the small waiting room. I imagined I was swimming through the water, and the short break in the waiting room was the time to pop my head out of the water and take a breath—a deep breath—before going jumping back into it, stopping my breath while taking orders from middle-aged men too tired even to take a glance at me. I started working there because I liked that they had a matchbox with a painting by Renoir, and also because I couldn’t imagine who the hell wanted to work in such a not-so-hip café.

Who?

Me.

And others, and all the insignificant souls that live without a clue.

And because I was kind to them, the waitresses grew fond of me. One of the ladies, her name was Amaha—a pretty woman with bleached brown hair, who looked especially beautiful in the black vest with a ribbon and a checkered skirt, went so far as to invite me to her home and make dumplings. It was in a suburb: a generic room with a generic view in a huge, bland housing complex. I remember looking at the size of the complex and feeling rather dizzy imagining how many untold mediocre stories were captured there. She had married the man who saved her economically, and often complained that the owner of the café treated her as if she were stupid.
“But you aren’t,” I told her.
“Sometimes it feels like I am,” she said. “He treats me like a fool all the time. But I know that I am not what he thinks I am.” I told her to comfort her. 

“That’s very strong of you. I don’t know why I can’t feel that way,” she said.

I didn’t know whether I was strong or privileged.

In the small waiting room, I carried a thick book of philosophy written by Bertrand Russell, and everyone was surprised that I was actually reading it. "Who reads that?" "No body" The girls chattered, confused. There were notes all over the pages. It was my way of saying “Fuck you” to the owner—never to the ladies, because they were such sweet souls.

But I needed to be misplaced. I wanted to touch the world. And since the owner treated me like a fool, I learned how to rebel. At that time, I needed  space between me and Amaha. I was there with an intention, whatever that it was, but she WAS there. That was my excuse. But now I can live in that same apartment building without a problem, that's how far I came.  

And today, while I was observing a man shaking his head at a mistake the young boy had made, I wrote in my notebook: “A man who shows his power through contempt is a weak soul.” And so many of them are. Weak souls.