Sometimes fate is like a small sandstorm that keeps changing directions. You change direction but the storm chases you. You turn again, but the storm adjusts. Over and over you play this out, like som ominous dance with death just before dawn. Why? Because the storm isn't something that blew in from far away, something that has nothing to do with you. The storm is you. Something inside of you. 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.
And 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. 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.
Your heart is like a great river after a long spell of rain, spilling over its banks. All signposts that once stood one the ground are gone, inundated and carried away by the 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.
On my fifteenth birthday I'll run away from home, journey to a far-off town, and live in the corner of a small library. It'd take a week to go into the whole thing, all the details. So I'll just give you the main point; On my fifteenth birthday I'll run away from home, journey to a far-off town, and live in the corner of a small library.
It sounds like a fairy tale. But it's no fairy tale, believe me. No matter what sort of spin you put on it.
Leees Kafka on the Shore.