Something is rotting in here, but not something of value, because naturally there really isn’t anything in here to rot. It’s nothing I’ll ever come to fathom, or understand, just many incomprehendable emotions, fleeting and ever so – subtle. I’m empty and inside, whatever had existed, has evaporated, like smoke. Am I dreaming? Or is this real? Am I real, have I ever been real? Are these thoughts, or just trails of after thoughts evoked by Murakami’s book? Even so, I know that what’s emerged as an emptiness, this feeling has been carried by me all along. I’m writing again, thanks to Murakami, his words are making me ’think’ again. But am I really thinking? I am. Every time I write, it’s to clearly talk to myself, say things that I know are already there, but too afraid to admit. It’s a confronting composition, speaking to myself, as if I already know what’s going on – but I fuck know shit all about it. I know shit all about anything, and that’s why I write.
I am an empty vessel. It’s just as Sumire was, I didn’t write anymore because, although still pondering, I didn’t care. I let the grass grow, I was too lazy to cut it, too lazy to think about it, I just basked in the nature of it’s growing, and let the tips reach far beyond my arms length. So what am I trying to convey here? I’ve lost apart of myself, in that two part mirror, just two entities looking at each other, but not knowing which is the real me and which it the Doppelganger. What the hell, this is all making so much sense, and yet not. That time, when I had a hallucination about the bat-like, whatever darkness you want to call it, that spoke out to me like God’s light had just reached me, words that formed “Doppelganger.” Everything seems to come together at some point, like all those drug filled fantasies mean something. All my dreams and thoughts are linked.
Out there, there is another me walking this earth, playing me. I can’t help but conclude as Miu did, that maybe I’ve made all this up. Definitely, I’ve created what I am, and yet still not come to accept the me that’s here, because I don’t think it really is. I only feel a void of vacancy, something else replacing it every day. This outer shell, of skin, fat, and organs, are only a body of tools, used by whatever’s inside to play with. And I, am not here, not there, not anywhere to be seen – maybe drifting off in a space and time so distorted it’s a dream pool, a vortex in another dimension, where I can see the body now and all I’m doing is laughing at how stupid it is.
How can Murakami write everything so distinctively for me? I want to talk to him, so badly. As I read more of his works, it’s like seeing myself in third person view, and I can’t help but feel hopeless and in more despair, because there isn’t anything solidified in the end, there isn’t really any solution. He emits such inspiration and deep thought, and all the problems I see within the characters that are shading aspects of myself, but no answers, no full solidified conclusions. There is only a gap left where one’s imagination is suppose to fill in. I guess I’m suppose to fill it in, but I can’t, because I’m there too, walking the same steps as those characters, just as confused and just as lost. If he could muster up such stories and characters, that must mean something: I’m not the only one feeling as I do, there are many others out there who can relate. If I find those people, can we come together and figure out the solution? Or is there even one? Can I reside in the notion that there is one and wait for it to come hit me in the face, or do I have to go looking? But I’ve been in search for so long, in search of what – myself- which self is that, and can I even recognize it when I see it? Self, self, self. Myself, inside, soft and juicy. Warm and comprehending. Not the inside that it is now.
Understanding is but the sum of our misunderstandings. I misunderstand a lot, and I tend to think I’ve come to understand all those misunderstandings, and I think that’s why I stopped writing for so long. Not only was it fear, or if that was I excuse I was making for myself, I think I know the reason. No I don’t, I just think I do. I think I know many things, but I write about them and – I got it – that’s why nothing ever concludes properly for me, by the end of every ‘writing’ I’ll feel unsatisfied and totally contradicting. I won’t even understand half the shit I wrote or the emotion felt at that time. It’s just many ‘me’ trying to play out their own agendas, confusing me even more. I still haven’t come to understand, and just as Sumire pointed out, we both write things, as if we didn’t know them. Things that I thought I knew count as well. I, myself can’t explain it too well, but Sumire can: “I think – in a very ordinary way – and reach a point where, in a realm I cannot even give a name to, I conceive a dream, a sightless fetus called ‘understanding’, floating in the universal, overwhelming amniotic fluid called incomprehension. Which must be why my novels are absurdly long, and up till now at least, never reach a proper conclusion. The technical, and moral, skills needed to maintain a supply line of that scale are beyond me.” That’s me too, just someone up in float not really being bounded by the hard contours of the ground, keeping on that scale of reality – I’m just incomprehensive. Not grasping jack all, makes it so hard to write. I wonder if it’s intended, maybe when I was a kid during some momentous occasion, like a Ferris wheel that spun out of control, and the gravitational pull made me split, and not just in two, but many parts, many amoebic parts that warp and change as the so please. Metaphorically, it’s like a funhouse of mirrors, and with the reflections, I can’t find which one is the real me. Some are fat, some thin, some tall, some frail, some strong, some that relate nothing to any sort of resemblance to me at all, but there are so many out there, which one is the one I’m looking for? I’m an amusement park; life is an amusement park.
I’ve been going on this long journey, quest, search for something, and I’ve said it many time: that I don’t think I can ever find it, so what do I do? I think I should travel. I mean, in all of Murakami’s characters they travel and come back with a better understanding. Sputnik itself means Companion of travelling and in Norwegian wood the reoccurring theme was travelling and solitude. Everyone in his books were lonely, and alone at many points and did so while travelling. Sumire disappeared to god-knows-where, and she came back, excited with so many stories to tell, as if her life had been wrapped up and snuggled into a picnic box, ready to display anywhere and share the many lucrative foods inside with the world to admire. I want to be a picnic box too. But before that, I’ve got to pick out the rotting and put in the real foods, the ones I know that are ripe and ready, the ones that aren’t plastic or rotting. Something at least, that is to say, because nothing’s really inside right now, nothing’s rotting. I guess it’s just the outer core – the body- that’s started to deteriorate, and that’s the awful rotting stench I smell.
I’ve lost desire, the passion to make things happen. All these emotions are unstable and fleeting, only subsequent to drug induced illusions and unnatural thinking, feelings that have no backing, and only there just because some drug has created them. I’m running on autopilot, whatever has replaced me, is running it around in circles, and my passion has withered away. I have withered away, I have disposition myself into somewhere else, intentionally or not, but I won’t get there. And I keep telling myself that, makes it even more evident I won’t.