A hill. And a small house on top of the hill. A woman was asleep in the house. The house was surrounded by a stand of blind willows. It was the blind willows that had put her to sleep.
A blind willow looks small on the outside, but it’s got incredibly deep roots. Actually, after a certain point it stops growing up and pushes further and further down into the ground. Like the darkness nourishes it. The flies carry pollen to her ear, burrow inside, and put her to sleep.
A young man, once, climbed up the hill to rescue the woman the blind-willow pollen had put to sleep. Pushing his way through the thick blind willows, the young man slowly made his way up the hill. He was the first one ever to climb the hill once the blind willows took over. Hat pulled down over his eyes, brushing away with one hand the swarms of flies buzzing around him, the young man kept climbing. To see the sleeping woman. To wake her from her long, deep sleep.
But by the time he reached the top of the hill the woman’s body had been, in a sense, eaten up by the flies.
In our lives instead of sensing what’s happening, saying what should be said we leave the hill, still overgrown with blind willows.
~A Small Story To Inspire, work of Haruki Murakami
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