There is a particular loneliness in realizing that every person carries their own private universe, a constellation of sights and sounds and connections only they can chart. We walk through life presuming some overlap, assuming that what we see, others must also see, that what we feel can be understood if only we find the right words. But that’s never true, not entirely. The world you inhabit exists only in you, shaped by the peculiar tilt of your thoughts, the way you absorb light, the shadows you notice that others don’t. Each of us is, in some way, a world entire, complete unto ourselves, even as we brush against one another in the fleeting intersections of shared experience.
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