Friday, June 19

The strangest gift of all.

If you asked me who Haruki Murakami was two weeks ago, I would have given you a silly grin and a curious stare, because I didn't know. His name was familiar, but that was the extent of it.

Then, one day a few weeks ago, a package arrived in the mail with no note and no return address and a book was enclosed by Murakami, the book "What I talk about when I talk about running" and being one who loves a great mystery, I was intrigued and delighted that such a mystery had befallen me.

Now, just a few chapters remaining and never in my life have I read a voice that is my own. His troubles, his thoughts, his triumphs (aside from his yearly marathons) all speak to the very core of who I am. It is as if the Universe itself bestowed this gift upon me.

To the kind soul that perceived they knew me well enough to introduce Murakami's works into my world, I don't feel as much a strange bird and, curious to read more of his works, wonder if my voice isn't so distant after all...

For this, and so much more I am
eternally grateful...

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