Rainy Sunday evenings always compel me to write; I’ve no idea why, though I’ve a theory. Maybe it’s true that the hidden romanticist in me unveils herself only at the oddest hours and quietest moments. Rainy evenings it is.
I just looked through a journal I attempted to fill last year summer, but of course – my lack of self-discipline is frankly appalling; I filled up some pages yes, but they were mostly filled with random spurts of extremely random thoughts, all written with my ugliest handwriting. Geez, talk about not even trying. Clearly, technology has overtaken me – this space is my journal, diary, you-name-it; I’ve long realized it myself though, this is a strangely personal book in an impersonal space.
But aren’t you glad? You get to peruse through the intricate compartments of my mind and heart! Ha.
Anyway. I did handwrite some quotes in the journal and one in particular struck a chord with me this evening; I did a quick search here and hm, surprisingly, it never made its way to this space? And so I thought right now’s the perfect time.
Murakami, as always, speaks the implicit language of my heart.
“Your heart is like a great river after a long spell of rain, spilling over its banks. All signposts that once stood on the ground are gone, inundated and carried away by that rush of water. And still the rain beats down on the surface of the river. Every time you see a flood like that on the news you tell yourself: That’s it. That’s my heart.”
— Haruki Murakami, Kafka On The Shore