the end of the world is in your head

From Oranges Are Not the Only Fruit: everyone thinks their situation the most tragic. How plausible. How misunderstood, how alienated by my own genius. Perhaps it's a question of perspective. Perhaps all of you are reading me right and I am the one who sits in the eye of the storm, haplessly clutching on to those flimsy pieces of self-awareness. How pathetic, how wrong. This can be the anti-emo.

It will not hurt my girlish, unsubstantial heart too much to admit that I like it that we shared a building, a corridor, that some days brimmed with the promise of you, that other days I could turn a corner and bump into you. I have the key. It sits in my pocket, heavier than it ought to be. I fancy that every bump, every crook, every tiny crater maps out the geography of your face. Only it doesn't. Only there is no real key. The tides will turn, and hopefully wash you away. Maybe one day we shall be thrown together again just so we can laugh about this.

Haruki Murakami is so symbolic it's almost annoying. But I loved every character, every plot device, every crude illustration, every bit of half-intelligible intelligent talk. He must be very competent in reconciling the mundane with the surreal. Today I found the idea of a train ride without his book strangely inconceivable.