”fate is like a small sandstorm that keeps changing directions. you change direction but the sandstorm chases you. you turn again, but the storm adjusts. over and over you play this out, like some ominous dance with death just before dawn. why? because this storm isn’t something that blew in from far away, something that has nothing to do with you. this storm is you. something inside of you. so all you can do is give in to it, step right inside the storm, closing your eyes and plugging up your ears so the sand doesn’t get in, and walk through it, step by step.”

– haruki murakami

murakami is my latest love affair with books. he’s the late-bloomer who discovered his passion for writing while watching a baseball game. i read another book of his, and  i wonder where he gets his metaphors.

i always fall in love with books when i get overwhelmed. this is the process: eva reads, eva gets overwhelmed, eva puts the book down. eva utters her favorite curse words, shaking her head and becoming breathless in the process. it’s almost the same as drowning in an actual person’s energy or passion. you know it’s a dangerous zone, your emotions being wiped out, replaced by pure anticipation; you watch your hands, spread out, ready for the nameless rush.

so to murakami: you are the black hole of metaphors, the singing well in my dreams. if i were to sleep for ten years, i’d opt for dreams containing all your silent, unrelenting characters. I’ve actually found a character from a book of yours that mirrors my tendencies. i’d love to meet you and share slices of fruit with you. we could walk in abandoned streets, and you could tell me your fears, and i could tell you about the wishes swimming in my heart. the tide would rush in, our voices would be muffled, but we would talk and walk, and not feel the tide bruising our calves.


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