To eat your name for dinner means I wake up with the Ocean’s rage in the crevice of my guts. The movement inside crashes into my organs. My heart, reverberates an incomprehensible dissonance of beats and rhythm. My lungs, slowed down by Chaos and Confusion, dance like little girls with two left feet. one. two. three — a waltz gone too fast.
To eat your name for dinner means I hold on to my sheets and cry out in pain as little stars escape my mouth. These stars do not fly out gracefully but fall on my sheets like defeated warriors. I shiver lightly from fatigue and nausea. I do not count theses celestial beauties instead I abandon them without a choice.
Another wave of movement inside me forces me to curl up into a ball. Pieces of the moon in its sheer silvery sheen make its grand exit out in such haste that my tears were not able escape my eyes in time.
A splitting pain and emptiness inside me gives birth to a strange light that stays with me and lingers… long enough to blind me.
I eat your name for dinner and awake throwing up the universe.
please. i need time. i want this to run smoothly. the universe, despite its omnipotence, demands so much. i am not made of rubber. i am stardust, and tears, and mistakes.
Every night I wish only that you would be mine. This I always shyly and cautiously leave hanging in the air. Only the stars and the leaves that rustle by my feet bear witness to my desperation – my pathetic contradictions.
Every night the moon watches me and drowns my plea with its silvery moonlight. I watch my shadows dance beneath the lamppost as I whisper my request out into the world.
The moonlight does not falter. It seeps through my very being. It fills me up and empties me.
Unlike the fragments of light that escape the clasp of leaves and branches, my wish will not reach the Gods.
Every night I whisper your name out into the world in the hopes of having you closer to me. In exchange, a piece of you is taken by the Gods as my own special atonement.
My heart tells me I should stop. My mind urges me forward.
Tell me, will the moon ever run out of light?
the wind, knocked out of me.
my lungs, like stubborn wind
does not succumb,
unable to surrender to death
for your sake.
my heart breaks
to a fast paced waltz
it shatters more,
each piece crying out
each letter of your name
it starts with a loud J
and ends in a hushed
it comes back.
like the ghost of poison
enough to bring forth
and cause me
to bend forward.
and scream your name
A young man probably in his late twenties sat down beside me and started a monologue without regard of embarrassment as if I am a longtime friend he had not seen for years and not like the strangers that we really are. He did not look at me when he split open his heart and shoved it to me.
I wish that she could have loved me… not like how much I adored her but even more — like how the day marries the night without question. I wish that she could have loved me so earnestly enough for her to have created a storm inside my emptiness. I wish that she could have loved me enough for me to burst into an endless symphony of chaos and beauty that made sense and meant nothing altogether. I wish that she could have loved me enough . . .
“Not everyone has to be the Chosen One. Not everyone has to be the guy who saves the world.”
Mikey, Henna, Jared, and Mel try to survive the remaining days of their high school life while the rest of their peers, the “indie kids” go into battle with the Immortals. The book pretty much shows how the lives of those who were not chosen to do great things (the premise being that there is such), still continue to live and solve their own mess.
Of all the main characters and their troubles, I loved Jared the most. Jared who until the end of the novel, just remained selfless, simple, and humble inspite of his God lineage. I also loved that his personality was a huge contrast to his physique and his genealogy.
As for whether I enjoyed the book or whether I would want a copy on my shelf, the answer is no. I did not enjoy how it was written nor the fact that the narrator, a seventeen year old boy called Mikey who was suffering from OCD, despised his mom’s egocentrism without noticing his. I didn’t enjoy the abrupt change of scenes and how it ended with the Immortals being defeated quite suddenly.
Someone told me that I would be able to relate well with this book. I guess she thinks I’m like the main characters and that I just live here. As snotty as it sounds, I don’t think any one of us are chosen to do “greater” things. We’re all just pretty much similar despite our differences and indifferences.
Sometimes we fall in love with a stranger. I guess that’s how I will always be with Haruki Murakami. His works always go straight into my heart. His words either builds a storm in my heart or puts my soul to sleep.
Whenever someone would ask me to summarize a Murakami story or book, I always tell them that his work is not the kind you can summarize. Besides the fact that Murakami’s works are of a magical realism genre, his works speak to people of various context in different ways. His words are presented with a very personal tone that sometimes, in my self-egoistic mind, I would wonder if he wrote it for me.
Blind Willow, Sleeping Woman is actually a collection of short stories that do not have any plot line connection with each other. I guess the only thing that connects each story is the fact that they were written by a very soulful person which makes each story a fragment of one person.
“I said nothing for a time, just ran my fingertips along the edge of the human-shaped emptiness that had been left inside me.”