Jamalyn (jamalyn) wrote,
Jamalyn
jamalyn

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Life is the conundrum.

I like the writer Haruki Murakami. Really like his work. No, really. (But strangely, not enough to buy it whilst it is still in only the hardbound editions. I hate hardbound editions. Hate. So to be honest, I like Haruki Murakami less than I hate hardbound books. This is still more than most any other writer. Where does this leave me? With a plethora of paperbound editions. Yeah. Insanity).



Anyway, my lost-in-random-ramblings point is this: I like the writer Haruki Murakami.

(That, and, that the main point of a paragraph is often found in the very first sentence).

But veering back on target yet again, I like the writer Haruki Murakami. I even subscribe to the Haruki Murakami blog where random people type their own pseudo-intellectual ramblings about none other than Haruki Murakami and his many works of fiction.



It was while reading one such post (about paperclips [Paperclips]!) that I decided that it was all (in a word) bunk.


Utter garbage.


No, not Haruki Murakami. I still really like his stories (but not as much as I hate hardbound books), but rather this (oft seemingly insatiable) need to find meaning in every little nuance is, as I typed: bunk. You know, maybe he was just writing a good story. Maybe meaning is nothing more than a tool used by the publishers to sell more books to people hoping against hope to someday overcome their own desperate fears of inadequacy. Maybe the man just had paperclips on the mind.



Or maybe not. Who really knows? Would even he?






On a side note: I like my HelloKitty calendar more and more with each flip of the month. What does that say about me, and more importantly, where is the meaning in that? *sighs*

Maybe life really is only in the conundrum.


Or maybe... we're all just full of shit. *smiles*
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