__      __ hy? It's simple, really. In order for me to think about something, I
       \ \ /\ / / have to first put it into writing.
        \ V  V /  
         \_/\_/   It's been that way since I was little. When I didn't understand
       something, I gathered up the words scattered at my feet, and lined them up into
       sentences.  If that didn't help, I'd scatter them again, rearrange them in a
       different order. Repeat that a number of times, and I was able to think about
       things like most people. Writing for me was never difficult. Other children
       gathered pretty stones or acorns, and I wrote. As naturally as breathing, I'd
       scribble down one sentence after another. And I'd think.
       
       No doubt you think it's a time-consuming process to reach a conclusion, seeing
       as how every time I thought about something I had to go through all those
       steps. Or maybe you wouldn't think that. But in actual practice it did take
       time. So much so that by the time I entered elementary school people thought I
       was retarded. I couldn't keep up with the other kids.
       
       When I finished elementary school the feeling of alienation this gave me had
       lessened considerably. By then I'd found a way to keep pace with the world
       around me. Still, until I quit college and broke off any relations with
       officialdom, this gap existed inside me—like a silent snake in the grass.
       
       My provisional theme here: On a day-to-day basis I use writing to figure out
       who I am.
       
       Right?
       
       Right you are!
       
       I've written an incredible amount up till now. Nearly every day. It's like I
       was standing in a huge pasture, cutting the grass all by myself, and the grass
       grows back almost as fast as I can cut it. Today I'd cut over here, tomorrow
       over there. . . . By the time I make one complete round of the pasture the
       grass in the first spot is as tall as it was in the beginning.
       
       But since I met Miu I've barely written. Why is that? The Fiction =
       Transmission theory K told me does make sense. On one level there's some truth
       to it. But it doesn't explain everything. I've got to simplify my thinking
       here.
       
       Simplify, simplify.
       
       What happened after I met Miu was, I stopped thinking. (Of course I'm using my
       own individual definition of thinking here.) Miu and I were always together,
       two interlocking spoons, and with her I was swept away somewhere—someplace I
       couldn't fathom—and I just thought, OK, go with the flow.
       
       In other words, I had to get rid of a lot of baggage to get closer to her. Even
       the act of thinking became a burden. I think that explains it. No matter how
       tall the grass got, I couldn't be bothered. I sprawled on my back, gazing up at
       the sky, watching the billowy clouds drift by. Consigning my fate to the
       clouds.
       
       Giving myself up to the pungent aroma of the grass, the murmur of the wind. And
       after a time I couldn't have cared less about the difference between what I
       knew and what I didn't know.
       
                                 *         *         *
       
                          Sputnik Sweetheart / Haruki Murakami
       
                                 *         *         *
       
 (DIR) I saw them all suddenly