The City and Its Uncertain Walls

by Haruki Murakami

“You just need to wish your way in. But truly wishing for something, from the heart, isn’t that simple. It might take time. In the meanwhile, you might have to give up all sorts of things. Things that you treasure. But don’t give up, no matter how long it takes. The town isn’t going anywhere.”

“I keep a notebook and pencil at my bedside, and as soon as I wake up, I write down my dreams. Even when I’m busy and pressed for time. When I have really intense dreams in the middle of the night and wake up, I fight the urge to fall asleep and instead I write them down in as much detail as I can. Since most of those are really important dreams and teach me a lot of important things.” “A lot of important things?” I asked. “About the me I don’t know about,” you replied. For you, dreams were almost on the same level as events in the real world, not something that you’d easily forget or something that would vanish so easily. Dreams were like a crucial water source nurturing your heart, conveying something vital.

What is real, and what is not? In this world is there really something like a wall separating reality from the unreal? I think there might be. No, not might—there is one. But it’s an entirely uncertain wall. Depending on circumstances and the person, its texture, its shape transforms. Like some living being.

However—there isn’t just one reality. Reality is something you have to choose by yourself, out of several possible alternatives.