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“Sometimes fate is like a small sandstorm that keeps changing directions. You change direction but the sandstorm chases you. You turn again, but the storm adjusts. Over and over you play this out, like some ominous dance with death just before dawn. Why? Because this storm isn’t something that blew in from far away, something that has nothing to do with you. This storm is you. Something inside of you. So all you can do is give in to it, step right inside the storm, closing your eyes and plugging up your ears so the sand doesn’t get in, and walk through it, step by step. There’s no sun there, no moon, no direction, no sense of time. Just fine white sand swirling up into the sky like pulverized bones. That’s the kind of sandstorm you need to imagine.

An you really will have to make it through that violent, metaphysical, symbolic storm. No matter how metaphysical or symbolic it might be, make no mistake about it: it will cut through flesh like a thousand razor blades. People will bleed there, and you will bleed too. Hot, red blood. You’ll catch that blood in your hands, your own blood and the blood of others.

And once the storm is over you won’t remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive. You won’t even be sure, in fact, whether the storm is really over. But one thing is certain. When you come out of the storm you won’t be the same person who walked in. That’s what this storm’s all about.”

by Haruki Murakami from “Kafka on the Shore”

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a storm passed by me a few minutes ago, leaving the house in ruins. a change swept across the surface of the floor very gracefully; as if it had always been there, looming just around the corner. i have walked past it may times during the comings and the goings of my daily life, still i never saw it coming. if i had seen it then maybe i could’ve held on more tightly to the walls of my bedroom and survived the passing of this night. flowers are blooming on the outside of these remains. cats are still purring and cars are still bustling. it all seems to be going alright until the moment it isn’t. the breeze caught me by surprise because of the violence in it’s voice. it sounded like what i would have imagined silence to sound like; a violence that can not be described outside the walls of this room. the sound of its silence seeped in through the cracks in the pavement and found its way with caution and stealth. had it been noticed then it’s silence would’ve have been broken by the sudden sound of dismay. violence is intensified in the dark. when you can see what’s coming it can’t hit you hard enough to turn noise into silence.