Whom can I ask what I came to make happen in this world? Why do I move without wanting to, why am I not able to sit still? Why do I go rolling without wheels, flying without wings or feathers, and why did I decide to migrate if my bones live in Chile?
Interpretation
This quote explores the existential questions of purpose and the human experience of longing and restlessness.
Pablo Neruda's quote delves into the introspective journey of searching for meaning and purpose in one's life. It reflects the internal struggle of feeling compelled to act and seek out one's destiny, while also expressing a sense of displacement and a yearning for belonging, particularly highlighting the conflict between one's roots and the desire for exploration and discovery.
In practice
During a motivational speech about pursuing one's dreams.
Perhaps this war will pass like the others which divided us leaving us dead, killing us along with the killers but the shame of this time puts its burning fingers to our faces. Who will erase the ruthlessness hidden in innocent blood?
I want to see the thirst inside the syllables I want to touch the fire in the sound: I want to feel the darkness of the cry. I want words as rough as virgin rocks.” - Verb.
Only do not forget, if I wake up crying it's only because in my dream I'm a lost child hunting through the leaves of the night for your hands.
And here am I, budding among the ruins with only sorrow to bite on, as if weeping were a seed and I the earth's only furrow.
Once more I am the silent one who came out of the distance wrapped in cold rain and bells: I owe to earth's pure death the will to sprout.
I learned about life from life itself, love I learned in a single kiss and could teach no one anything except that I have lived with something in common among men.
The wretch condemn'd with life to part,_x000D_ _x000D_ Still, still on hope relies;_x000D_ _x000D_ And every pang that rends the heart_x000D_ _x000D_ Bids expectation rise.
I think that ideas exist outside of ourselves. I think somewhere, we're all connected off in some very abstract land. But somewhere between there and here ideas exist.
What is all our histories, but God showing himself, shaking and trampling on everything that he has not planted.
Anytime someone says your God is ugly and you release your God and join their God, there is no hope for your freedom until you once more believe in your own concept of the 'deity.'
Gatsby turned out all right at the end; it is what preyed on Gatsby, what foul dust floated in the wake of his dreams that temporarily closed out my interest in the abortive sorrows and short-winded elations of men.
The enemies of freedom do not argue; they shout and they shoot.
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