Everything will die
Lanterns lit for old loved ones
Cut flowers wilting
I’m reading a novel by the Japanese writer Haruki Murakami, the Wind-up Bird Chronicle. I’ve only just started it, but it’s like nothing I’ve read before. It’s very existential in its approach, written in the first person, the main character seemingly blunders around, trying to make sense of life through a series of surreal encounters. It has a sense of impeding tragedy about it, it feels lonely, detached. I feel sad reading it. But it’s very compelling. Little acts, little descriptions all seem to weigh heavy with significance. Today’s Haiku really has nothing to do with what I’ve read of the book so far, other than it was inspired by it in terms of the unsettled feeling within me as I read on.
If I was forced to look for and pin some meaning to it, it might be that the thought of giving someone cut flowers always has troubled me. They are a gift which is either dead or dying. They may open up, they may fill the room with colour, but ultimately they will brown and die and there is little you can do about it. Much better a pot plant! If you kill that, then you’re just flippin’ useless (or the plant detested being around you)
