This is the passage in the stories of Haruki Murakami I have read that most reflects life, to me. P.S., if I’m ever unable to explain/tell you something, there is at least an 80% chance this is why.
From the story “Firefly,” translated by Philip Gabriel.
Every time I try to say something, it misses the point. Either that or I end up saying the opposite of what I mean. The more I try to get it right the more mixed up it gets. Sometimes I can’t even remember what I was trying to say in the first place. It’s like my body’s split in two and one of me is chasing the other me around a big pillar. We’re running circles around it. The other me has the right words, but I can never catch her.
I have this problem less often when I’m writing, but it does still happen. The most upsetting fact for me as a writer is the knowledge that language is inadequate.