Maybe it’s not in the perfection of life that things make sense, but in the chaos.
Rachel Van Dyken, Ruin (via observando)
And I, infinitesimal being,
drunk with the starry
likeness, image of
felt myself a pure part
of the abyss,
I wheeled with the stars,
my heart broke loose on the wind.
— Pablo Neruda, from “Poetry,” Neruda: Selected Poems (Houghton Mifflin, 1990)
I am more sensitive than other people. Things that other people would not notice awaken a distinct echo in me, and in such moments of lucidity, when I look at myself, I see that I am alone, all alone, all alone.