In finer print...

‘All I did was to go to the library to borrow books’
An innocuous line, describing a mundane or regular activity of an avid book reader, wouldn’t you say? Something so simple and generic that one might not mention or think it out aloud had it been just another library and the trip without any consequence. I mean, libraries are boring places; one goes there to seek refuge, to get some reading or studying done, and leave with books of their choices. Plain and simple.
But then Murakami doesn’t see things in a simple manner like we do, does he? Nope. He brings the weird out in us. He gives life to all our silly thoughts of being followed, talking animals, and parallel universes and of monsters under the bed or in this case in the library basements.

On a fine day like any, the protagonist of Murakami’s The Strange Library, on his way home from school, lost in his thought, wishes to return his library books. He hates being late; he never is, as his mother did not raise him that way. He is a co…

Bottle up your emotions, they say. Repress them. No need to talk about it. Hush it up. A tragedy is a tragedy. A loss of life cannot be a replacement or forgotten. There is no evading it or escaping it. It crops up as if it was always meant to be. And it is. It will. But we aren’t taught to see tragedy in a transparent light. We like to cover it up, afraid of the judgment that comes along with it. Folks will think we are cuckoo. It will ruin our reputation. They’d say we have gone soft in the head. Our emotions will affect our decisions and so we can’t be trusted. Blah. Blah. Blah. So we put a lid on it. Brush it under the carpet. Pretend to move on swiftly, trying to make sense of the awkward void of pain, distress, and restlessness. It should not be addressed. Swallow the pain like a pill. Ignore the panic. If you don’t stop talking about it, how will you move on? But the bigger and relevant question is, the one going through it, are they willing to move on already. Sadly, the sufferer …

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Picture courtesy: Google. Only for representation purpose.
Standing on the highway, Roads leading both ways to somewhere, I stand still and wonder, Where do I belong?
The soothing lullabies of the green mist fairies call.  With promises to wrap me in the cool calm fog, Holding me in wet, gentle caresses, lulling the storm within. 
The call of the shrill, salt-laden sea sirens,  from the sun-baked rocks, Pull me back To join them as they make me one, in the fathomless abyss of wonders unseen. 
I lament my fragile being,  Born with one heart, not two, Torn between the ebb and flow of waves, And earthy scents in muddy dew. 
Both offer me refuge,  Cloaking me whole in their embrace, Dust to dust, flesh to flesh and soul to soul. 
In this battle between the mind and the heart, The heart but loses steam,  Leaving me stranded on a path to nowhere, never to be seen. 
My mind has been wrought with depression and all things crappy. This is a result of binge-watching a…