But this love, I say, is something more than bodies and it scares me to know that I can feel it but am I feeling a love for none or perhaps for all... I love no one like this, so why do I now feel a weakness in my gut and in my throat and making my legs unwilling or unable to stand it how can I love and love not one in this way. Oh it's just my imagination running away; it thinks it knows. don't know, I say.
It is this evening that I lie over the covers of my bed and carefully care fully set my scene. the thunderstorm they said would come never did so I've hung the sound of my rain in the backgrounds; the window stays open and the curtains are shut so that there is a coldness filing in through the wooden frame, starting in past the heavy red fabric in short shoves and I am still, over the covers on my bed.
It is this evening that I set my scene with the noisy white tone of the central light off, door locked, and the lamp light that floods this corner of my bed then oh so like a soft cloth draping this place it peters out to meet gently with the strange partitions of my ceiling, drown'd the room in an intense yellow that I couldn't look in the eye; and the fairy lights that should have died two Christmases ago but are still hanging a sickly yelloworange on the back of my chairs, they're in the far corner barely reaching here with some broken bulbs - i suspect the filaments went burst - like broken teeth, punched the lights out of her.
Attaching my fondness to watching the art of stories unfold, the art of living and telling of it, has mutated inside an imagination, no it's no longer something that i can pull myself out of so easily. must everything be a story for it to matter to me, it seems. no, i absolutely will not listen to you if you have no story for my ears to hear. you cannot speak so plainly to me, for it's your imagination that i'm wanting you to reveal to me, give me your mind and your passion though I've done nought to earn it. give me yourself freely and I'll picture you something, ahh- some thing beautiful. oh but i also say, damn it, why won't everyone speak so plainly in this world? speak to me as your mind would have it at first instance, would you, don't falter in my way. I've attached my fondness to thinking people aren't people but are stories to be folded whichever way we'll take them and told on the dimly lit stage of some tuckedaway bar filled with interested arts students on a tuesday night. What am i thinking of the people I know this evening? but firstly, what do I think of my self? now there is a question. I'm too [---] to address this repression all at once and let you know of it now. be sure, though, do not doubt that i will let you know how i'm getting on with answering for this life. I can't speak so plainly now so I'm a hypocrite woman, yes woman now because that's what i say I am, and I still have far to grow before I can ever stand that height without feeling the dizziness of overwhelm- and exhaust- taking over me, over taking me, no mr undertaker I'm not quite ready to step into the ground yet. oh I'm not dead yet. I don't think God's quite started with me let alone done just. yet.
Back then he was convinced that if he merely focused on what was going on inside of him, his heart would finally stop of its own accord. That if he intensely concentrated his feelings on one fixed point, like a lens focused on paper, bursting it into flames, his heart would suffer a fatal blow. More than anything he hoped for this. But months passed, and contrary to his expectation, his heart didn't stop. The heart apparently doesn't stop that easily.
so he gives me a story an imagination could glut on: says the heart must live until the day it won't and that's got nothing to do with me, really.
This is the evening that I sit and listen to my own, concentrate on what i am feeling once more. I have done it too many times before to be sorry for my own shallowness so I tell it only to set my scene, so you see. And I've been thinking much of late about looking and seeing and if there is any difference in them at all. Nobody will tell me and I've been conversing with God but I'm not sure i am quite ready to know anything. taking in the revelations with a tint of blue and then some other colour like red when my eyes can quite adjust to seeing it. see it. what is it that i am looking at, what's it i'm seeing?
my eyes are dry tonight, they will cry out what they can another night, but tonight- tonight belongs to sleep and cold breeze through my window and silverlinings, stayinggold, helplessblue with some faraway rain that perpetually falls on my ears until I am sent away to some unconscious state.
helplessness blues/ f.fxs.
colourless tsukuru tazaki
&his years of pilgrimage
/ h.murakami.