Sandstorms of the metaphysical sort

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. 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 is all about.

– Kafka on the Shore, Haruki Murakami

Rarely do I post other people’s thoughts and works here (that’s what the other place is for), but these boldened paragraphs at the start of Haruki Murakami’s bestseller couldn’t be more apt. 

At the risk of sounding self-indulgent, I noticed a small pattern in my life. Well, the last couple of years in my life. One quarter of each year, usually the first, I do undergo some sort of sandstorm. Call it what you will. Each time, an immensely emotionally challenging and exhausting one, inevitably resulting to a catharsis. It is triggered by a single specific event, but evidently a conglomeration of surmounting events and trials. And at the end of each “sandstorm”, I do wonder how I had been able to manage. Or realise that it was not as collosal as it might have seemed. Or that the past ones were nothing in comparison. Or that there is just so much more going on in the world for my little problem to bear any significance. (I find that last one often relieving)

But one thing is indeed certain: it doesn’t matter how big or small a feat it was. It molds you into something different. It might break you, into a million pieces, and turn your insides out. But you will come out of it, eventually. You have to. And you won’t be the same, never.

And oddly enough, you will notice that the rest of the world isn’t either.


For some of those that can’t seem to just take things as they are and extract its significance (you know, of just being) and must question and demand how or why does any of this even matter: the answer is I DON’T KNOW.

But I do know, that for as long as I am actually experiencing anything likened to a sandstorm (and conscious of it) — this is me being alive, and that’s as good as it gets. Forget profundity. If you feel hungry, or thirsty, or tired — that’s you being and feeling alive as well.

Okay, that’s enough philosophy for the day.        

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