In the swirling winds of everyday life, where thoughts dance like leaves in the fall, I found myself at 6832 Kawabata, an address that holds more riddles than answers. In this house of winding corridors, a sentence echoes that makes the walls tremble:
“Hell is other people.” 1
But what if the others are just reflections of ourselves, distorted in the carnival mirror of reality?
Here, in this maze of stone and silence, I encounter shadows that whisper and giggle as if they were old friends. They tell stories of worlds that exist only in the deepest corners of the mind, worlds that are as real as the air we breathe and yet as fleeting as the morning mist.
In a moment of clarity - or is it madness? - I catch sight of a window. It opens onto a scene reminiscent of a puzzle, a silent, lonely image that captures the longing and isolation of human existence. But this window is not a way out, but another glimpse into the kaleidoscope of the incomprehensible.
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Jean-Paul Sartre ↩︎