On Kafka on the Shore
I'm currently reading Kafka on the Shore by Haruki Murakami a second time through, invoking memories of the first time I decided to read it.
I was working with the Public Attorney's Office then, and my mental illness had already taken a turn for the worse. My panic attacks have become frequent, and physically, light and noise make my head hurt to the point that I want to tear my ears and eyes off. There was a constant screaming in my head as I read through the simplest pleadings and motions, making it difficult to discern already indiscernible legalese.
It was during this time that I bought and brought to the office a copy of Murakami's Kafka on the Shore, and when my panic attack struck, I would go to one of the rooms in my office where case archives were being kept and read the book. It was a small room near our office's entrance, filled with shelves and stacks of cases from floor to ceiling, and above - if I remember correctly - two lightbulbs, just enough to cast an eerie pale-yellow glow around the place. Deep around this place, wading through knee-high piles of yellowing papers and an overturned plastic chair that has perhaps since become load-bearing to one of the shelves, between the ghosts of old lawyers and clients alike, I sat and read peacefully, away from the bustling and prodding of everyday life. Once in a while, a colleague would come inside the archives to check out a case and fail to notice me in the corner with my nose on a book.
In any case, months later, I was confined to a hospital due to my mental illness and was declared bipolar. A lot of things have happened since then - I have resigned from PAO now - but certainly, years later, there is a fond memory of that room and Murakami's Kafka in my mind. It reminds me of a place that I seek whenever I have one of my episodes: Death, but not so permanent.
Anyway, that's my book review, 5/5 stars.