I often get this feeling, that things are made only for me. For how else would someone else be able to feel anything, when not getting it, when not feeling what I feel? Because I hear them talk, afterwards, the audience, about little things, about which bus to take. And then I want to cry.
I can echo this sentiment. Like can @negativer, apparently. Perhaps there's something to be said about that. Either us three are wrong, or perhaps it's a thing of writers, and philosophers and artists of every kind.
I went to the inauguration of the french film festival in my city some days ago, and I felt something similar as I watched the movie me and my friend chose. Some shots were so amazing, so full of meaning, so... sublime. And I knew I would hear nothing about it afterwards, and the person beside me wouldn't even recognize the shot if I tried to tell them.
And I probably couldn't do it justice by explaining. Perhaps there is nothing to discuss.
It's the kind of thing that speaks directly to the soul, perhaps. Like a whisper in your ear. Something that art, and nature, and lonely places and tiny events, have the ability to do.
Ow, yes, absolutely agree with this and yes, that is exactly what I meant.
Perhaps there is nothing to say... perhaps there is no language to say it in...