Sputnik.

So perhaps this post will, as usual, not have a proper start. My train of thoughts is always light years ahead of me--the thoughts are swarming, floating and swimming, then store themselves in the drawers scattered inside my head. There should be nothing spectacular to be told. Or maybe there are too many--each of them is now trying to get my attention, keeps twinkling and changing its colour like chameleon so as to catch my eyes, but there are simply too many.

It's like, when you look at the night sky--it is blue and vast, with its unreachable depth that adds to its eerie intensity. It is empty. If you are to describe it virtually, you will have nothing to talk about except its mere shade or palette. Then a star suddenly appears. You gasp at it, trying to examine it in and out, describe the way it shimmers and all....suddenly appears another one. Similar, but not identical. So you find the difference and elaborate the details again from the first scratch. And before your eyes--tens, hundreds, thousands of stars already overwhelm your previously empty, clear sky. How can you survive describing them one by one?

That's it. Your handwriting or typing can't catch up with your thoughts. It's like a rabbit that chases a carrot attached to a mobile cart endlessly. You think you are getting near, but you will never grasp it because it keeps moving.

I am now sharing the same dining table with cheap mineral water bottles, colourful supplements, a quarter full jug of tasteless brown tea, and orange spongecake while writing. I am skipping school today and I have the actual final exams in two weeks time. Everyone has been ranting about that, for sure. I have been practicing to write letters to principal, essays, mathematical solutions on tens of grams of papers and that exhausts me. Funny thing is people are doing things and still complaining at the same time. What an ability we humans have: multitasking.

Now my legs feel wobbly. Thump! Thump! They make sound in my head as I involuntarily tap the back of my feet on the floor. They signal me to go fast, to catch up with the last train of thoughts. Hey, let's not wander and finish this off quickly.

I have just finished my first ever Murakami--not the best start it was, according to book reviews. (I enjoyed it, tho.) They say I should have started with his richer writing--perhaps the peculiar and enigmatic Hard-Boiled wonderland, or the popular Kafka. I accidentally discovered this book on my way out of toilet's library. I was going to study, no other intention. (Perhaps meeting boyfriend initially, but it was unlikely.) I took a casual look at the bookshelf that happened to be directly outside the toilet. Murakami turned out to be the only name I could easily recognise. There were only four books of him there, three of which shared the same title, Sputnik Sweetheart. (They had different covers though, I suspect one must be UK publication and the other is US.) Two of which had covers that featured a delicate black and white portrait of naked woman lying on bed, her chest was tightly in contact with white bedsheets, her face facing us, giving innocent and light look. Mum would go ballistic if I were to bring this home, but it seemed to be an interesting book. The third was of the same title, with a subtler cover of a yearning face of a girl duplicated and made double in watercolour effect. The side cover was quite beautiful, the shade of the duplicated face (now in four, rotated against each other) somehow looked like a random, ancient oriental alphabet. I decided to take this one home.

The book offers a few tingles of surrealism, as if the dimension is split into two. It is spiced up with sexuality issues, lesbianism, loneliness, fragile friendship/relationship and a light, unresolved detective game. It is quite peculiar, for sure, it gets surreal when you enter the other dimension of the story. What is even more peculiar is that it is lighter than what I expected before. I like it not because everyone think Murakami's cool, hip, controversial or whatever. Ok, his grand recognition was what drew me at first, but the book itself is very compelling on its own. (Argh, maybe I'm just trying not to conform with the so-called non-conformists.)

The ending, as I expected, is abrupt and vague. That quite bugged me, really. I wished it was completely resolved, or not at all. But this is something in between, which surely gives sour aftertaste, that lingers long under your tongue. I threw the book right after reaching the last page, as I hastily read the last line. I picked it up again, hoping to find some small notes or epilogue. But the last few pages were empty, stained yellow as passage of time has tarnished them.

The synopsis mentioned about the book's philosophical aspects, but I could only find a few, which are actually well described and are never intimidating. I was really struck by how relevant it was I typed it on my tumblr. As I did this, I asked my mum.

"Mum, do you like to read novels?"
"A few times in my youth."
"What novels?"
"I can't recall the titles. It was a long time ago."
"I mean, what kind of novels--romance, suspense, philosophy?"
"Nah, I never got to read philosophy. Was too occupied with my job at that time. All I could think about was how to bring bread and butter back home. And some money to save, of course, if suddenly I happened to get married."
"Hmm. I like to read about philosophy."
"Tell me about philosophy. What exactly is it?"

I haven't read much, but philosophy is just beautiful as it is. It is a way of looking at life from general perspective, utilising general knowledge, forgetting boundaries so that it could be more well-perceived, no matter what race or religion you are from. My mum is quite strict about religion.

As she frowned, I swiftly added, "It is important to have a balanced view, right? Our religion even encourages us to pursue knowledge. I just want to know more about life from various perspectives."

She beamed. "It is okay, as long as you don't trip over."

What is tripping over, mum. I wanted to ask. But sure as hell I know she wants me not to shun our religion because of earthly things. One time I asked, "Why do you think our religion is the only one that's right, we only happened to be born with it. Sure, it is a beautiful thing, but why? Why not other religions? How could you know that what you've been told is the only truth, without assessing the others who claim to be the only truth as well?"

And what a terrible decision it was. My mum wept. I think it's because she never expected to get such questions from her daughter. She might ponder why don't I just shut up, study hard and lead a honourable, simple life? Many people manage to do that without having to argue about logic and all. She said our logic has limitations, you can't talk about God using logic. Humans can never have that capability. True that, but sometimes things, other than God's presence, just won't work out with only faith and instinct, without logic at all.

So I stopped throwing question marks at her. What is right to her, let it remain so. I don't want to give an impression to her that I'm one of the kids she previously warned me about. But the more I run from it, the more I turn into one. I like my mum though, a lot.