We’ve been having quite some typical November skies these past days. They are beautiful in their very own way. I’ve been on a mission to get my place as comfortable and cozy as possible before the cold time takes over for the next couple of months. And I’ve been reading a lot Murakami.
Sometimes fate is a like a small sandstorm that keeps changing direction. 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 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. There’s no sun there, no moon, no direction, no sense of time. Just fine white sand swirling up into the sky like pulverised bones. That’s the kind if sandstorm you need to imagine.
Haruki Murakami „Kafka on the shore“