an insect, a murderer, and me
I've always been a bookworm. People often asked me why I was so fascinated by books. I'd always give a brief answer about liking words and being drawn to different writing styles. That was true, obviously. But now, as an adult, I can see the bigger picture: reading books was never just about entertainment; they provided me with an escape—a Narnia-style portal that pulled me away from the clutter in my life and in my head.
Long were the years I spent diving into the made-up worlds of fairies and long-lost princes, or mutant children, my head filled with colorful realities—realities that often shone brighter than my own. These stories gave me something to hold on to, something to believe in during moments when my own story felt like it could be scrapped by an editor for being too much.
I no longer read about those mutant kids or about love triangles set in dystopian worlds. Gone are the days of the chosen ones or secret royal bloodlines. These days, I find myself drawn to the classics—Oscar Wilde's wit, Steinbeck's quiet devastation, the kind of literature that lingers in you long after you've closed the book. Recently, I familiarized myself with some of Franz Kafka's work—the highlight so far being Metamorphosis—and then immediately after I read The Stranger by Albert Camus. They both struck me like nothing I'd ever read before.
Both Kafka and Camus deal with the same themes: alienation, absurdity, and the struggle (or refusal) to find meaning in things. However, they go about it in different ways. This is where I should stress that this is not a book review, but rather a reflective piece that just so happened to be brought on by two magnificent bodies of work—ones that, to this day, have me questioning life, humanity, and most importantly, myself.
Let's proceed.
Metamorphosis and the fear of becoming useless
Kafka's Metamorphosis opens with Gregor Samsa, who wakes up one day as a giant insect, a repulsive vermin. As the story unraveled and Samsa was faced with his predicament, a thought immediately popped into my brain. It wasn't of how Gregor Samsa could've possibly woken up one day as a cockroach but rather that he didn't seem concerned by it. There was no meltdown, no existential crisis. To him, it was crucial that he found a way to get out of bed because he could not be late to work—and not the fact that his body was no longer his own. And all I could think was: holy shit. The story had just begun, and already, I was confronted with a perfect metaphor for life—you wake up one day, in the middle of a life-altering crisis and your first immediate thought is to email your boss.
As Gregor adjusts to life in his new body and his confinement to his bedroom, his real tragedy begins. It's not the fact that he now is an insect that destroys him—it's that his family no longer sees him as Gregor. Once the sole provider of his household, he now is the family's greatest burden and shame. As the story progresses, and the longer he is a prisoner in his room he begins decaying—not only physically but mentally as well. As Gregor Samsa became aware of his condition, I too began understanding what Kafka was trying to say—the existential nightmare of realizing that you are only loved as long as you are useful.
I hadn't expected the story to hit me as hard as it did. I have often felt like Gregor—maybe not in a literal, grotesque way, but in the quiet, creeping realization that my value is tied to what I can offer. As a daughter, as an older sister, as a student, as a friend, as a lover—I have felt myself shrinking under the weight of expectations, bending and contorting to myself to fit the roles assigned to me. How many times have I questioned if people cared for me as a person or just for the version of me that serves them? I wondered—when do I stop being "me" in the eyes of others? When I change? When I stop meeting their needs? Or is it just a matter of time before I become a version of Gregor Samsa, locked away in my room and forgotten?
The worst part of the story is that Gregor never fights back. He becomes aware of his situation and accepts his fate, as if deep down, he always knew this was how things would end. And maybe that's what disturbed me the most—because I've had moments where I've felt that way too.
The Stranger and the freedom in indifference
Then there's The Stranger, a book that doesn't crush you with existential dread but instead looks you in the eyes and asks, "So what?"
The opening lines are infamous: "Aujourd'hui Maman est morte. Ou peut-être hier, je ne sais pas" / "Mother died today. Or maybe yesterday, I don't know." Meursault, the protagonist, doesn't cry at his mother's funeral. He doesn't feign grief to make the others comfortable. Later, he kills a man—not out of malice, not out of rage, not even out of revenge. He killed a man simply because the sun was in his eyes. And the world condemns him, not for the murder, but for his indifference.
Meursault refuses to play the game. He refuses to pretend to care about things he doesn't care about. The court puts him on trial, not just for the murder, but for his lack of performance—for not crying at his mother's funeral, for his lack of regret, for his general detachment from what society deems important. Meursault is sentenced to death, and as he faces his impending fate, he doesn't beg for meaning where there is none. Although at times it seems he is conflicted by his predicament, in the end, he embraces what he has always known: the world is indifferent, and so is he—c'est la vie.
"For the first time, in that night alive with signs and stars, I opened myself to the gentle indifference of the world. Finding it so much like myself—so like a brother really—I felt that I had been happy and that I was happy again." He embraces his fate, just as he has embraced everything else—with neither resistance nor remorse. He welcomes the inevitable, not with resignation, but with the quiet understanding that nothing more was ever promised. In accepting this absurdity, he finds peace.
If Metamorphosis made me feel trapped in expectations, The Stranger made me question why I ever cared in the first place. I was confronted with an uncomfortable thought: what if nothing actually matters? Not in the nihilist "let's give up" way but in the liberating "so why not live on my own terms?" way. If I am not bound by expectation, if I owe no one a performance, then what do I really want?
Where do I fall?
Kafka's world is suffocating, and Camus' world is indifferent. Gregor fights the absurdity of existence by submitting to it; Meursault embraces it and is punished for doing so. One decays under the weight of obligation, the other defies it and is sentenced to death. And somehow, I see parts of myself in both of them.
Some days, I feel like Gregor—lost in my own metamorphosis, losing pieces of myself to expectation, to duty, to the quiet, unseen demands of being needed. I am aware that there is a version of myself that exists purely to serve others, to carry responsibilities that don't feel like choices. I know what it's like to shrink, to be exhausted by the weight of proving my worth through usefulness. And I know the fear of asking: If I stop being what others need me to be, will they still love me?
Other days, I feel like Meursault—watching the world move around me with detached amusement, wondering why we cling so tightly to things that, in the grand scheme of it all, will never matter. I understand the quiet rebellion of refusing to pretend, the desire to reject scripted emotions, the comfort of accepting that there are no deeper meanings, no divine justifications—only what is. I understand the peace he finds in surrendering to absurdity, in realizing that no matter what he does, the universe will remain indifferent. And yet, I also understand how terrifying that realization can be. Because if nothing truly matters, then what do we have left?
I think about how these last couple of years of my life have been spent searching for meaning. The way I've tried to fit myself into narratives that make sense—tried to be the good daughter, the dependable friend, the person who carries things so others don't have to. And here come these little agglomerations of papers and words, that force me to ask: Do I do this because I want to, or because I'm afraid of the alternative? What happens if I stop searching for meaning and start creating it on my own terms? If I stop measuring my worth by my usefulness? If I stop performing the emotions I'm expected to?
I haven't yet reached the point of letting go that Meursault has—I'm not sure if I'm even ready for it. But I'm also tired of feeling like Gregor Samsa, suffocating under a role I never asked for. Maybe that's why these books hit me so hard. Because I'm stuck somewhere between them: mid-metamorphosis, mid-trial, mid-existential crisis.
