"All we, like sheep, have gone astray; we have turned every one to his own way; and the Lord hath laid on him the iniquities of us all."
I don't know why it's so satisfying to find or come up with words that describe my feelings perfectly. But, to me, it's one of the keenest pleasures I know of. (See? I'm boring. Like Mr. Rochester said, "then your pleasures have been few.") And it seems that my whole entire existence is one big quest to do that. To take a whole mess of thought and emotion, and condense it. To organize it, shave off the excess, until I'm left with nothing but the true, the innate, the primal. To spit and polish until I describe all of these feelings in a few simple sentences.