
 “ Sometimes  fate is like a small sandstorm that keeps changing directions. You  change direction but the sandstorm chases you. You turn again, but the  storm adjusts. Over and over you play this out, like some ominous dance  with death just before dawn. Why? Because this storm isn't something  that blew in from far away, something that has nothing to do with you.  This storm is you. Something inside of  you. So all you can do is give in to it, step right inside the storm,  closing your eyes and plugging up your ears so the sand doesn't get in,  and walk through it, step by step. There's no sun there, no moon, no  direction, no sense of time. Just fine white sand swirling up into the  sky like pulverized bones. That's the kind of sandstorm you need to  imagine. 
  An  you really will have to make it through that violent, metaphysical,  symbolic storm. No matter how metaphysical or symbolic it might be, make  no mistake about it: it will cut through flesh like a thousand razor  blades. People will bleed there, and you will bleed too. Hot, red blood. You'll catch that blood in your hands, your own blood and the blood of others. 
    And  once the storm is over you won't remember how you made it through, how  you managed to survive. You won't even be sure, in fact, whether the  storm is really over. But one thing is certain. When you come out of the  storm you won't be the same person who walked in. That's what this  storm's all about.” 
    
Haruki Murakami  in Kafka on the Shore