There’s a metal on metal sound clinking somewhere in the distant – a metal spoon scraping upon a metal bowl. The rhythmic sounds were passionate, methodological, and you can see its engineer, wiping his sweat away upon his shiny forehead as he worked with the utensils.
I wish my world is in that bowl. Spooning away these remnants, these relics that I’m afflicted and accursed with. Spooning away the seemingly infinite love I have of this world and her inhabitants – already I can visualise the engineer getting old progressively as he worked on, yet it was as if nothing was being scooped away. My world is still as full as before, stacked full with visions intangible, with feelings overgrown.
I wish a deluge of sea would wipe away my world into a clean slate, drown the overrun pieces of burned confetti, and wash away every molecule into a world reborn of nothingness. Empty – so that I could finally let other lives into my world, so that these personae whom I love too much would finally be able to live with me. Or I with them.
如果我的世界不是这样，那该有多好。
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» Haruki Murakami - The Wind-up Bird Chronicle