Haruki's real story.

Just the other day, I was thinking about Haruki Murakami and the book I read. The wind-up bird chronicle. It's really something. It's a tribute to heartbreak. It really is. The author laments about his missing lover and then remembers her smells. Remembers everything. Remembers their pet names. And in the end, he forgives her. He leaves the bitterness in the hands of optimism and closes his memory on a melancholic note. I read that book on my trip to the himalayas trying to forget the melancholic love and not once did I ever realise the underlying notion of why the book might have been written...But then when I think about the book as I lay by the window watching the rain, all I can think of was how the author might have drained his memories in a surrealistic book that didn't even once hint of the loss, that could have been probable. That although being the central theme of the book, could largely have been of a lover that left him to grieve, the lover that just like many others after building this layer of trust, just didn't come back.