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 Hive account@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.