Quotes About Introspection

I walked around as you do, investigating the endless star, and in my net, during the night, I woke up naked, the only thing caught, a fish trapped inside the wind.

Sucede que me canso de ser hombre.

Die Slowly' by Pablo Neruda: He who does not travel, who does not read, who does not listen to music, who does not find grace in himself, she who does not find grace in herself, dies slowly.

When I see the sea again has the sea seen me or hasn't it seen me? Why the waves ask me The same that I ask them? And why do they hit the rock With such a futile enthusiasm? Don't they get tired of repeating their declaration to the sand?

Quién soy en esta ciudad muerta?...No entiendo sino las cenizas.

When I sleep every night, what am I called or not called? And when I wake, who am I if I was not I while I slept?

Hay algo más tonto en la vida Que llamarse Pablo Neruda? (is there anything more insane in this life than being called Pablo Neruda?)

Am I allowed to ask my book whether it's true I wrote it?

Someday, somewhere -anywhere, unfailingly, you'll find yourself, and that, and only that, can be the happiest or bitterest hour of your life.

the heart moving through a tunnel, in it darkness, darkness, darkness, like a shipwreck we die going into ourselves, as though we were drowning inside our hearts, as though we lived falling out of the skin into the soul.

I was born anew, owner of my own darkness.

I adore my own lost being, my imperfect substance

Did the loneliness die that night? Or was I born then, of my solitude?

I know, I know, but here beside the water while the locusts chitter and sparkle, although they are waiting, I want to wait for myself. I too want to watch myself. I want to discover at last my own feelings. And when I reach the place where I am waiting, I expect to fall asleep, dying of laughter.

Now I'll count up to twelve and you keep quiet and I will go.

Para mí los libros fueron como la misma selva en que me perdía, en que continuaba perdiéndome.

Por qué se me vendrá todo el amor de golpe cuando me siento triste, y te siento lejana?

Comenzaron los sueños y la vida a detenerme, a dejar su pregunta en mis pestañas.

Para mí solo aquellas soledades, para mí solo aquel camino puro, para mí solo el universo.

Por qué me sigue el esqueleto? Y quién salió a vivir por mí cuando dormía o enfermaba?

Sin mirar hacia ninguna dirección libremente, incontrolablemente se me soltaron mis poemas.

Huye. Aléjate. Extínguete. Mi alma debe estar sola. Debe crucificarse, hacerse astillas, rodar, verterse, contaminarse sola, abierta a la marea de los llantos, ardiendo en el ciclón de las furias, erguida entre los cerros y los pájaros, aniquilarse, exterminarse sola, abandonada y única como un faro de espanto.

Nadie mejor que mis errores

Cuando vas por las calles nadie te reconoce. Nadie ve la corona de cristal, nadie mira la alfombra de oro rojo que pisas donde pasas, la alfombra que no existe. Y cuando asomas suenan todos los ríos en mi cuerpo, sacuden el cielo las campanas, y un himno llena el mundo. Solo tú y yo, solo tú y yo, amor mío, lo escuchamos.