“No, he thought, I’m not cool and collected, and I’m not always doing things at my own pace. It’s just a question of balance. I’m just good at habitually shifting the weight I carry around from one side of the fulcrum to the other, distributing it. Maybe this strikes others as cool. But it isn’t an easy operation. It takes more time than it seems. And even if I do find the right balance, that doesn’t lessen the total weight one bit.”—Colorless Tsukuru Tazaki and His Years of Pilgrimage - Murakami Haruki (via ronoh)
Maybe I am fated to always be alone, Tsukuru found himself thinking. People came to him, but in the end they always left. They came, seeking something, but either they couldn’t find it, or were unhappy with what they found (or else they were disappointed or angry), and then they left. One day, without warning, they vanished, with no explanation, no word of farewell. Like a silent hatchet had sliced the ties between them, ties through which warm blood still flowed, along with a quiet pulse.
There must be something in him, something fundamental, that disenchanted people. “Colorless Tsukuru Tazaki,” he said aloud. I basically have nothing to offer to others. If you think about it, I don’t even have anything to offer myself.
”— Haruku Murakami - Colorless Tsukuru Tazaki and His Years of Pilgrimage (via nineohtoo)
“All that remained now was a sort of quiet resignation. A colourless, neutral, empty feeling. He was sitting alone in a huge, old, vacant house, listening as a massive grandfather clock in the hallway ticked away time. His mouth was closed, his eyes fixated in the clock as he watched the hands move forward. His feelings were wrapped in layer upon layer of thin membrane and his heart was still as black, as he aged, one hour at a time.”—Colourless Tsukuru Tazaki and his years of pilgrimage, Haruki Murakami - (via crystzhj-)