When too many things occur in the same times, emotions get swirled up and awkward. All of those things prevent me from getting a sleep.
Just about couples of hours my friends will be on stage, play the play I wrote. And seeing things that often be told to be yours, you can’t keep yourself from being nervous. No, this feeling can’t be interpreted in that simple way. Or, it is that simple yet the clock of logic has been snuffed up and shut down from miles ago, letting the brain alone suck up the things it cannot digest.
And just about couples of hours ago, I sent a note to one of my friend, whom I gave my most confused sensations to and un – explanatory relationship with. Whom I expected to give me a note back if interested or “okay” if not, but aiming that high is only way that you may not forgive yourself. “seen” as always, the usual him.
The way that Murakami can depict in most of the scene of internal illusions of one or another character, if only I can use it, the perfect way of describing myself now. Even the reviews haven’t let me down.
He’s going. Slowly but not waiting for whom I suppose is not himself nor me, but it is utterly killing one by one, the sensations that stringed up by the time one’s meet. He’s moving. From one place to another without coalescing from clouds of fine particulates. He seems to not materialize in one geographic place but mental, things that sometimes loom on behind a cloth of dreams, sometimes dissipate into a charged communal flow.