I Am Not Murakami

I just discovered that I am not Murakami, and I never will be.

I am not sad. I am myself. Murakami is Murakami. I don’t need to be him. I am okay being me.

Even if the only thing I could do well was to take a broom and sweep this room clean, that would be worth it—being a human being. I am not trying to pretend to be a philosopher, though sometimes it may feel that way. I am just giving voice to my thoughts. 

My understandings come like a shaft of brilliant light in a dark room. I cannot help but see them as revelations.