If You Are Free, Why Are You Lost?
A Non-Bounding Conversation on Truth with a Sip of Kafka (Coffee)
Life, as we know it, doesn’t consist of daily trips to a café—unless, of course, you’re the barista. Social media certainly tries to convince us otherwise, suggesting we should stride into work with a branded coffee in hand, following a night of online-induced overthinking. Add in a “positive” chat with your favourite barista, who hands you a menu of “3, 5, or 10 straightforward steps” to guide you away from your existential demons, and voilà—life seems manageable around the time you send all matriculated, organised international invoices and receipts to your accountant.
But let’s be honest: what you’d rather do is down several shots of black espresso at home, humming: “That would be it from me”, hoping for lack of response leaving your tax destiny in the hands of an all-knowing numbers guru while watching a barista online craft the perfect cappuccino with your name artfully etched in foam. It’s probably best we don’t reveal what could be said over such “take-your-time” carefully created coffee, especially when surrounded by patrons speaking in a language they think you don’t understand. (It turns out that sometimes, that very lack of understanding might just be the start of an interesting relationship…)
However, if you ever find yourself in one of those intriguing cafés in Prague, Brussels, or even Liverpool (which apparently enjoys a variety of styles beyond “Let It Be”), you might discover that the barista serves up not just coffee but a side of deep dark thoughts that might be difficult to take in one sip without a hint of Tena’Adam leaves.
So, since kawka (pronounced: kafka) means small coffee in my first language, let’s take a moment to sip our coffee and ponder how the ordinary can reveal the extraordinary, guided by Kafka’s poignant words without foamy designs:
“You are free, and that is why you are lost.”
This line can resonate in countless ways, depending on your life’s context.
Freedom sounds fantastic, right? But Kafka suggests that it often brings its own brand of confusion, leaving us feeling adrift, like straight after a breakdown of a relationship.
Kafka’s, German-speaking Jew, view of freedom isn’t focused on liberation from restrictions but on the vastness of choice and the often solitary self-determination.
Viktor Frankl, another existential thinker, psychologist and Holocaust survivor, once wrote, “Between stimulus and response, there is a space. In that space is our power to choose our response. In our response lies our growth and our freedom.” Both Kafka and Frankl illuminate that uncomfortable space where we hold the reins of our destinies yet often feel overwhelmed by the responsibility that accompanies it.
You imagine yourself standing before endless choices—careers, relationships, places to live… Sounds like the modern dream, right? But every option brings the weight of making the “right” choice.
“Freedom is what we do with what is done to us,” noted Jean-Paul Sartre. Kafka’s words remind us that each little decision shapes who we become, and as Sartre implies, this green open landscape of freedom sometimes presents a challenge itself.
Ever been paralysed by the sheer number of choices, whether trying to pick a new series to binge-watch or deciding on a painting for your living room? Multiply that feeling by all of life’s choices, and it’s clear why freedom and feeling lost often go hand in hand. We’re frequently told, “You can be anything you want!” With everything possible, there’s a silent pressure to figure it all out. Kafka captures this exact tension. When faced with the full responsibility to define ourselves, we often end up feeling uncertain, even stuck.
Virginia Woolf put it beautifully: “I am rooted, but I flow.” We crave both stability and the freedom to explore. Despite the internet, social media, and global opportunities promising empowerment, we often find ourselves feeling the opposite.
Hegel wisely said, “To be free is nothing; to become free is everything.”
This relentless influx of choices heightens our awareness of options but seldom clarifies our path. And it’s not like we’re lacking advice. “Live your truth!” “Find your passion!” “Make an impact!” But when standing on the edge of an endless field of freedom, it can feel less like liberation and more like a labyrinth.
Kafka’s words might seem heavy, like a handmade mug from real clay instead of a cheap IKEA imitation, yet they invite us to rethink what it means to feel “lost.”
“To dare is to lose one’s footing momentarily. To not dare is to lose oneself,” said Søren Kierkegaard. Feeling lost can signal that we’re engaging with the freedom of choice, reminding us that the journey, with all its blind spots, muddy roads and confusing twists, may serve as a form of guidance. In that freedom, we often find the courage to keep moving forward, trusting, as Kafka might, that our most meaningful transformations occur when we dare to lose ourselves.
So, let’s raise our coffee cups to the adventure of life, questioning what true “freedom” might mean with four intriguing facts about Kafka:
Kafka had several complex relationships with women, but he struggled with intimacy and commitment. His most notable relationship was with Felice Bauer, with whom he had a tumultuous engagement. Their correspondence revealed Kafka’s deep insecurities about love and marriage.
He was known for his self-critical nature, often deeming his works unworthy of publication. He instructed his friend and confidant Max Brod to destroy his manuscripts after his death. However, Brod ignored Kafka’s wishes and published many of his works, including The Trial and The Castle, ensuring Kafka’s place in literary history.
Kafka suffered from tuberculosis, which he was diagnosed with in 1917. His illness led to periods of isolation and reflection, during which he produced some of his most profound writings. The struggle with his health often mirrored the themes of existential angst found in his stories.
He often felt caught between different cultures and communities, leading to a sense of disconnection that permeated his writing.
