It’s not always the case that if one is in a relationship, everything that he’s thinking will be put into life. Everytime it happens, it seems like everything that he sees is light and no traces of ugliness at all; and for that, he’s blinded. Sometimes, what seems to be superficially pleasant and beautiful can’t be resisted, but it delimits the space inside us, and it tightens the veins of our dreams.
Good morning, June thirteen. I went outside to find some quiet place to breath, and I was successful about it. It was then that I have seen a light between the clouds like apple cracks and bittersweet glare coming from the sun. I knew that it was just lurking around, and I knew that it just hid in there. But when I took a walk to check the greens in the garden, I felt the wind and it brought me somewhere in the past. I glanced up again and tasted a raindrop and it tasted nothing, but I liked how it felt in my tongue. I remembered the first time I tasted rain when I was little. I used to play a lot in the garden to form some clay balls for fun. I didn’t know what it was for but I loved it. It was a Sunday, but it was the first time I tasted rain. It tasted nothing, but I knew that I opened my little mouth to gather some and I was happy about it. It was the same month of the year, the month that there was something which could feel like rain. Sometimes I wonder how it feels like to be a raindrop, to be in the place of a thing which others sometimes can’t feel.
I want to talk to someone who needs to talk to a stranger. I just want to feel how it goes. Like when we talk, it’s as if everything we say just passes by, like the lights of cars on the road which trail like they will never end, but the truth is they will, and they will be gone like how everything is not happening anymore. I see how car lights go away too quickly, it’s like that when they say hi, they bring some confusing streak of jets, like saying that they want to stay but they can’t; we know how it feels like when they’re gone, and we know how permanent that feeling is.
Maybe the star doesn’t even exist any more. Yet sometimes that light seems more real to me than anything.” —Haruki Murakami, South of the Border, West of the Sun (via 4mbivalent)