On Murakami and Why my future nights will be better without Melatonin.

For the first time in days, at this very moment, I can say that things will be better. Better in a sense that I may be able to sleep soundly without the help of Melatonin. I turn to someone else. Probably someone you also know.

It would be disrespectful to break down Murakami into Mathematics or Science. Murakami doesn’t work that way. Let me tell you how he works: After buying his book, you feel the need to go someplace where you can be alone with his pages, not to read, but to just smell the pages of the book. You do this once, twice, three times. You pause for a while and then you smell it for the fourth, fifth and then after sometime you get lost in the pages’ smell. You put down the book. You let it sit on your table for days. You leave Murakami for a while. You leave and you do not tell him when you are coming back. One day, you get home from work, tired, frustrated and lonely. You see your table. You see Murakami again. You grab the book, pass up on the chance to eat dinner, you offer yourself to get lost in his words. In between chapters, you sometimes close your eyes. You don’t know why exactly. Your lips part perhaps trying to mumble something important, something you have read. More often than not, there’s something that did strike you and your soul. You put down the book and leave it again to sit for a couple of days, maybe even months. One day you get home again, you see him and you pick up where you left off only to find out that he has been waiting for you. He has always been there waiting for you. When you finish his book, you lie on your bed, speechless. You shed some tears. You turn to your left side and realize that you should be on your right side. You turn again. Again. After a while, you sleep on your belly. You like that dead weight. The following day, you wake up and you realize you are not the same person. You will never be the same person.

Tonight, I sat on my bed thinking about Murakami. I want to talk to him. I want to ask him questions. I guess tonight, he decided to talk to me again and after this, I am sure, things will never be the same again.

“But who can say what’s best? That’s why you need to grab whatever chance you have of happiness where you find it, and not worry about other people too much. My experience tells me that we get no more than two or three such chances in a lifetime, and if we let them go, we regret it for the rest of our lives.”

― Haruki Murakami, Norwegian Wood

Many of us pass judgment on people for personal reasons. I can enumerate some but it doesn’t really matter. At this point, nothing else matters. I am a different person. Things will never be the same again. But let me tell you something dear reader, I do not know you and you do not know me. I will not judge you. I don’t expect you to do the same. There may be a chance for us to know each other, maybe a small chance. Don’t pass up on it. I will not pass up on it.

Tonight, I will sleep soundly. I know it. I am certain. I don’t need Melatonin anymore.

I am leaving you with Murakami tonight. Goodnight and may you sleep soundly as I will.

“Sometimes 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. There’s no sun there, no moon, no direction, no sense of time. Just fine white sand swirling up into the sky like pulverized bones. That’s the kind of sandstorm you need to imagine.

And you really will have to make it through that violent, metaphysical, symbolic storm. No matter how metaphysical or symbolic it might be, make no mistake about it: it will cut through flesh like a thousand razor blades. People will bleed there, and you will bleed too. Hot, red blood. You’ll catch that blood in your hands, your own blood and the blood of others.

And once the storm is over you won’t remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive. You won’t even be sure, in fact, whether the storm is really over. But one thing is certain. When you come out of the storm you won’t be the same person who walked in. That’s what this storm’s all about.” 

-Haruki Murakami, Kafka on the Shore

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