Murakami published another short story.
He manages somehow to touch the depth of my heart each time at the exactly right moment. I, like other fans of his work, might only imagine that there is a explainable connection between us.
I really like the image New Yorker has chosen. Finger drawings, letters on a wet window are somehow as melancholic as memories
I was less melancholic during the weekend when I joined the baptism of my first niece, our first third generation. It's always a miracle to see life in a new form. My cousin appeared like a complete new man to me: I was truly touched by the way he was dancing with his new born baby while keeping her close to her heart. That was an expression of pure, unselfish love.
But some gloomy thoughts were still lurking around the corner. I was thinking about love and what it means to me. How I end up always being left behind. How I can't follow the dancer's footsteps, how I can't properly hear the beatings of his heart. I can't help but wonder if my feet will go numb someday, exhausted, just when the band finally starts to sing my song.
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