bookish perfection.

'i have this strange feeling that im not myself anymore. its hard to put into words, but i guess its like i was fast asleep, and someone came, disassembled me, and hurriedly put me back together again. that sort of feeling.' - hakuri murakami, sputnik sweetheart

continuing my attempt to read multiple books at the same time because im an indecisive person and also because i get distracted easily by the next interesting book/thing/whatever i encounter.

recently ive been staying up late a lot, reading novels and silently making negotiations with myself - '10 more pages then ill go to sleep/ one more chapter/ actually, two more! oops now its 6am...'
anyway, the latest book ive been reading is sputnik sweetheart by hakuri murakami, ive always came across quotes by this author and liked them a lot but this is the first book by him that ive actually started reading. it was a random choice among his work - i liked the name and last sentence of the back-of-the-book description.

i think im around half way through the book now and i already cant wait to read everything else that he had written. every line is so beautifully written, yet so sad at the same time. its not the kind of apparent sadness but that deep sorrow that makes you reflect on similar encounters/experiences in your own life. not in a depressing way though. more like, someone just described your inner emotions out loud and youre half scared because someone just saw right through you, but also half hopeful because someone out there actually understands.

being addicted to this sort of bookish perfection really makes accepting reality quite difficult. especially during conversations or events that dont follow plot structure. which is practically all the time. so i write, get all caught up in my own thoughts and pretend im some sort of tragic hero. (even when i have multiple deadlines the next day and have accepted the fact that i will not be getting any sleep tonight.)

its my way of ignoring life.