I came across a passage by Kafka today that resonated with me.
Bachelor's Ill Luck
It seems so dreadful to stay a bachelor, to become an old man struggling to keep one's dignity while begging for an invitation whenever one wants to spend an evening in company, to lie ill gazing for weeks into an empty room from the corner where one's bed is always having to say goodnight at the front door, never to run up a stairway beside one's wife, to have only side doors in one's room leading into other people's living rooms, having to carry one's supper home in one's hand, having to admire other people's children and not even being allowed to go on saying : "I have none myself," modeling oneself in appearance and behaviour on one or two bachelors remembered from one's youth.
That's how it will be, except that in reality, both today and later, one will stand there with a palpable body a real head, a forehead, that is, for smiting on with one's hand.
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