I tried to leave behind thoughts and feelings of emptiness while I closed another Murakami book I borrowed from the library. Of course Murakami’s effect on me did not permit me to do so. These never-ending thoughts lingered in my mind like liquid cough syrup. I hated the way these thoughts stay and do nothing there. They just stay — much like the pungent smell of a coworker’s perfume.
“Is it possible, finally for one human being to achieve perfect understanding of another?”
Rather than wondering whether this is possible, the question of whether anyone would care so much to really try to understand and get close enough to me — my essence is bugging me. I know I’m a difficult person to uncover and much more, to understand. But that’s not the point. I’m not scared of that. In fact, I am completely aware of that. What worries me is whether anyone would even put an effort to try.
Would anyone get so close enough to knowing that I don’t like pineapples on dishes but would kill to have that ice cold pineapple juice? That the smell of fresh laundry comforts me as much as a cup of warm coffee. That the sound of the neighbors fighting or arguing gets me anxious or that I do not like my hair being touched.
I can go on and on for a long time… but would anyone even care enough to ask or even wonder?
“Would I ever see the rest? Or would I grow old and die without ever really knowing her?”