So long as you have food in your mouth, you have solved all

Host: The rain was relentless, drumming on the tin roof of a dimly lit tavern at the edge of the old quarter. Neon from a broken sign flickered outside, casting splashes of red and blue across the wooden tables where the air hung thick with steam, tobacco, and the earthy perfume of stew.

Inside, humanity gathered like embers clinging to warmth — strangers huddled over bowls, spoons clinking like quiet prayers against the cold.

In the corner, beneath a flickering bulb that hummed like an insect caught in thought, sat Jack and Jeeny. A simple meal lay between them: a loaf of bread, two steaming bowls of lentil soup, and silence thick enough to chew.

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “Franz Kafka once said, ‘So long as you have food in your mouth, you have solved all questions for the time being.’”

Jack: (lifting his spoon) “Trust Kafka to reduce the human condition to soup.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe to restore it to something honest.”

Jack: “You mean, to hunger?”

Jeeny: “To presence. When you eat, you stop philosophizing. You just… are.”

Host: The spoon trembled slightly in Jack’s hand, his reflection rippling in the broth. The steam rose like a soft ghost, brushing his face as if to remind him that existence is not always found in books — sometimes, it lives in breath, heat, salt.

Jack: “I think he was being cynical. Saying that food distracts us from the absurdity of everything else.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But even in that cynicism, there’s mercy. He’s saying — in a world full of questions that never end, here’s one moment where you can stop asking.”

Jack: “Until the bowl’s empty.”

Jeeny: “And then you ask again. That’s life, isn’t it? Hunger, relief, hunger again.”

Host: Outside, thunder rolled low, like the growl of something ancient remembering its power. The tavern’s windows shook briefly. The flame of a nearby candle shivered, and Jack’s gaze followed it — the way one watches a fragile truth that might vanish if breathed on.

Jack: “You know, people spend their lives searching for meaning. They build religions, philosophies, empires. And Kafka says — ‘just eat.’”

Jeeny: “Because sometimes meaning isn’t found in grand ideas. It’s found in survival.”

Jack: “That’s bleak.”

Jeeny: “No — it’s grounding. Think of it: every meal is a tiny victory against despair. A reminder that we’re still here, still capable of choosing life over nothing.”

Host: The tavern door opened, and a rush of wind swept through, carrying the scent of rain and poverty. A man entered, drenched, his eyes hollow. He sat at the counter, ordered nothing, just warmed his hands over a candle.

Jeeny’s gaze followed him, her voice quiet.

Jeeny: “When you’ve known hunger, you understand gratitude differently. You stop asking ‘why life’ and start whispering ‘thank you.’”

Jack: “You speak like someone who’s known it.”

Jeeny: “I’ve known loss. It’s a kind of hunger too.”

Host: The words sat between them like another meal — one made not of bread, but of honesty.

Jack stirred his soup, the motion slow, almost reverent.

Jack: “So, Kafka wasn’t mocking meaning — he was mocking our obsession with it.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. We chase philosophy because we can’t stand the quiet truth that being alive is enough.”

Jack: “Enough for what?”

Jeeny: “For now.”

Host: She broke off a piece of bread, dipped it into the soup, and handed it to him. He hesitated — not out of pride, but out of something more fragile: recognition.

Jack: “It’s strange. When you’re eating, you stop existing in past or future. There’s only warmth, texture, taste. It’s… peace.”

Jeeny: “That’s the brilliance of it. Food is the most democratic form of transcendence. You don’t need faith or intellect — just hunger.”

Jack: “So you think Kafka was a mystic disguised as a cynic?”

Jeeny: “Maybe all cynics are mystics who got tired of being disappointed.”

Host: The rain softened, the tavern grew quieter. Outside, the city lights smeared like brushstrokes through fog. Inside, time had slowed — two spoons rising and falling, a shared rhythm between survival and solace.

Jack: (after a pause) “You know what this reminds me of? That story about prisoners in war camps — how they’d save a crust of bread for someone else even when starving. They said it wasn’t about food. It was about dignity.”

Jeeny: “Because to feed someone else is to declare hope still exists.”

Jack: “And to eat what’s given is to accept you’re worthy of living.”

Host: The air between them shimmered with something unspoken — the raw, simple sacredness of being human.

Jeeny: “That’s why I think Kafka’s line isn’t ironic at all. It’s a quiet rebellion. He’s saying: in a world that crushes you with questions — eat. Stay human. Refuse to vanish.”

Jack: “You really think that’s enough?”

Jeeny: “It’s all we’ve ever had. The small acts that defy meaninglessness — a bowl of soup, a kind word, a hand offered.”

Host: Jack set his spoon down, the bowl nearly empty now. The warmth lingered in him like an ember against the storm outside.

Jack: “So, every meal’s a kind of prayer?”

Jeeny: “Yes. But not to a god — to existence itself.”

Jack: “And the prayer says?”

Jeeny: “I am still here.”

Host: Silence followed, deep and sacred. The kind that belongs not to conversation but to understanding.

The candle burned low. The last of the stew was gone. Yet neither moved — because they both knew, in that quiet, they had solved all questions for the time being.

Outside, the rain stopped. The world exhaled.

And in the soft stillness of that worn tavern, Kafka’s truth revealed itself:

That life is not made of answers, but of continuance,
that meaning hides in the simplest acts of being,
and that to eat — to breathe — to remain — is to rebel against the void.

Host: Jack smiled faintly, pushing the empty bowl away.

Jack: “You know, maybe for once, Kafka wasn’t lamenting despair. Maybe he was celebrating the small, edible peace between questions.”

Jeeny: (smiling back) “Exactly. Because sometimes, the most profound wisdom tastes like soup.”

Host: And with that, the two of them rose — not enlightened, not saved, but sated.

The tavern door creaked open, letting in the smell of wet earth. They stepped into the quiet night — two silhouettes beneath the clearing sky, walking not toward answers, but toward the next moment that would ask for nothing but presence.

And somewhere behind them, the empty bowls still steamed faintly, whispering the simplest, oldest truth in the language of warmth:

You have eaten. You are alive. For now — that is enough.