my personal opinion and thoughts for kafka's masterpieces. as noticed i started to think that's isn't life odds?
The Metamorphosis — A Mirror of Flesh, Faith, and Futility
A Long Essay on Kafka, God, and the Quiet Collapse of Meaning
“I cannot make you understand. I cannot make anyone understand what is happening inside me. I cannot even explain it to myself.”
— Franz Kafka, The Metamorphosis
I. Waking Up as Nothing
When Gregor Samsa wakes up and finds himself transformed into a monstrous insect, we are startled not by the metamorphosis—but by how quickly everyone accepts it.
He is no longer “Gregor.” He is now a burden. A stain. A biological error.
And that error must be hidden, muted, isolated until it conveniently disappears.
Sound familiar?
In a world that runs on utility, worth is conditional.
Love is earned through labor.
Existence must be justified.
So when Gregor can no longer provide, he is not pitied—he is discarded.
And so the question arises, one Kafka never asks directly, but echoes in every line:
II. Why Were We Created?
Did God create us out of love?
Or did He simply grow... lonely?
Are we masterpieces, or merely a divine distraction?
We are told there is meaning. That everything happens for something.
But then we open our eyes, and we wake up as Gregor Samsa—
slowly dying in a room that used to be our life.
So ask yourself:
What if the Creator was not benevolent, but bored?
What if He, too, wakes each day to a reality He no longer finds beautiful?
And we, His images, are doomed to reflect that disappointment?
III. The Human Condition: Insect in a Suit
Kafka shows us what we are without our illusions.
A body. A function. A cost.
And when that cost outweighs the value—when the calculator says no—we are no longer wanted.
Gregor is not punished for evil.
He is punished for existing beyond his usefulness.
He is punished for changing.
And that makes me wonder:
If God watches this... if He knew this would be the outcome—
then why create us at all?
To test us? To observe us?
To laugh?
Or perhaps worse:
He made us and forgot.
IV. On Alienation and the Absurd
Modern life alienates by default.
You are known not by name, but by data.
Tracked, not remembered.
Quantified, not understood.
In Kafka’s world—and ours—the individual dissolves into a blur of tasks, expectations, and silence.
Every “How are you?” is rhetorical.
Every prayer echoes into static.
And so we return to Gregor:
Locked in a room. Unspoken. Unseen. Unloved.
Alive, but irrelevant.
V. Do We Matter?
This is the question that claws at my ribs late at night:
Does any of this mean anything?
If I vanish tomorrow, will the sky dim even a shade?
Will time pause?
Will the universe notice?
If God is omnipotent, then every suffering soul must also be His intention—or His indifference.
And in either case, how do we find peace with that?
Maybe we don’t.
Maybe peace was never promised—only presence.
But even that feels cruel, some days.
VI. We, the Forgotten Creations
There is something brutally honest in Gregor’s quiet decay.
He does not rage. He does not protest.
He merely... fades.
That is perhaps the most terrifying part.
Not the transformation—
but the acceptance of meaninglessness.
So again we return:
Why are we here?
To love? But love is conditional.
To work? But work is survival, not transcendence.
To believe? But faith often feels like waiting in the rain for someone who never arrives.
Is our existence a gift, or a cosmic oversight?
And if God is real—does He still care?
Or did He build the machine, press play, and walk away?
VII. A Quiet Prayer to the Unreachable
Kafka gives us no answers. Only questions sharpened into knives.
But maybe that’s the point.
Maybe the only honest way to face life
is with trembling.
With rage.
With poetry.
So here’s mine:
Dear God,
If You hear this,
If You remember me,
If I was ever more than a decimal in Your vast design—
Speak.
Not through miracles.
Not through doctrines.
But through meaning.
Because without it—
we are just insects,
crawling toward a light
that never meant to warm us.