norwegian wood

i began re-reading this the other day, to remember. apparently they are turning it into a movie. should be interesting - hopefully not in a totally botched up way.

There is no way around it: my memory is growing ever more distant from the spot where Naoko used to stand -- ever more distant from the spot where my old self used to stand. And nothing but scenery, that view of the meadow in October, returns again and again to me like a symbolic scene in a movie. Each time it appears, it delivers a kick to some part of my mind. 'Wake up,' it says. 'I'm still here. Wake up and think about it. Think about why I'm still here.' The kicking never hurts me. There's no pain at all. Just a hollow sound that echoes with each kick. And even that is bound to fade one day. At the Hamburg airport, though, the kicks were longer and harder than usual. Which is why I am writing this book. To think. To understand. It just happens to be the way I'm made. I have to write things down to feel I fully comprehend them.

almost two months ago i wrote this: it's interesting how some memories are so clear, while you have difficulty recollecting the smell, taste, and touch of others. i found the draft as i started to write this post. at the time i abandoned it because i didn't have the energy to dig deep enough to put everything into words, to make the connections. i've since forgotten what triggered me to write.

i don't want the memory to come back -- for it to kick me. but it inevitably will, likely because i didn't write it down.