Sur...really?

Was asked to read Haruki Murakami and was given his collection of short stories titled, "The Pink Elephant". I read about 9 stories but couldn't figure them out, although there was one I really liked. The rest made me want to groan, tear my hair out, beat every cat I came across (the man is obsessed with dead cats) and yell louder at my new neighbors.

Aristotle, in his "Poetics", which is the earliest-surviving work of dramatic theory and the first extant philosophical treatise to focus on literary theory said "The aim of art is to represent not the outward appearance of things, but their inward significance."

As a student of literature, I learned that every work of art, poetry and prose included needs to have a goal. Umnn... am I going foot in the mouth here... I hear that my blog isn't really easy to comprehend. But seriously what is the point in writing stuff that sounds fancy but doesn't make sense. I like stories to have a beginning and an end and something decent in between.

Murakami is a surrealist and has won the Kafka award. I enjoy Kafka and have even referred to his "Metamorphosis" in an earlier blog and Albert Camus's "The Outsider" is one of my favorite books. I do fathom and enjoy absurdism and surrealsim but I couldn't Murakami.

So... I wrote this piece to check if I confuse the @#&* out of anyone who reads it.

The door bell rang. Insistently.
Was I going to answer it. There was no one I was expecting.
There is always someone I wish would come.

Languidly I stretch out my fingers and peer at them through half closed eyes. My fingers are fused. They haven't been busy. I separate them almost reluctantly. They are divided into two parts. The first three move one side and the other two move the other. That's my window.
I'm looking out.

Yesterday she walked on the beach. The sand clung to her bare feet. Singularly. She's got tears in her eyes and the wind has blown them across her cheeks and the corners of her eyes have hair sticking unbecomingly. Why doesn't she wipe them off. Laziness is my blanket.
I don't share.

If I can move and walk to the door and open it to see her there. I would. I wanted to. I did. Honest.

A soft laugh escapes and I let the dream end, the window close and the door bell ring.

I feel absurdly idiotic...