Kafkaesque at Its Finest

I am not Lutfi.
I am 16 numbers my nation assigned to me, just like my bank did.
A code to identify me, to track me, to prove that I am real.
But not real enough to matter when something breaks.

You try to do things the way things are meant to be done.
You follow instructions, fill out forms, tick boxes whose regularity doesn’t match the world you live in.
You wait in lines, refresh pages, hold for the next available agent who may never exist.
You bring proof, only to be told it is not the right proof.
You speak clearly, but somehow your voice arrives garbled on the other side of the counter.

Somewhere along the way, it stops being about the problem.
The broken object.
The missing data.
The lost file.

It becomes a rite with no god, only guidelines.

And no one knows who wrote the rules.
No one knows who can help.
They only know they can’t.

You start to feel like the error.
You, with your logic and your hope,
are the anomaly in a system that thrives on static.
You become part of the machinery. Not a cog, but a noise.
A glitch.
A name in a spreadsheet that will never turn green.

And worst of all, no one is evil here.
Just polite.
And tired.
And bound.

You walk out into the sunlight, feeling strangely translucent.
You had a task. Now you have a headache.
The world hums on. Sterile, efficient, devout in its indifference.

There is no resolution.
Only paperwork.
And a version of you that no longer bothers to ask why.