Tiré de « The Dic­tio­na­ry of Obs­cure Sor­rows »

http://www.dictionaryofobscuresorrows.com/

1. Son­der

the rea­li­za­tion that each ran­dom pas­ser­by is living a life as vivid and com­plex as your own.
You are the main character—the protagonist—the star at the cen­ter of your own unfol­ding sto­ry. You’re sur­roun­ded by your sup­por­ting cast : friends and fami­ly han­ging in your imme­diate orbit. Scat­te­red a lit­tle fur­ther out, a net­work of acquain­tances who drift in and out of contact over the years. But there in the back­ground, faint and out of focus, are the extras. The ran­dom pas­sers­by. Each living a life as vivid and com­plex as your own. They car­ry on invi­si­bly around you, bea­ring the accu­mu­la­ted weight of their own ambi­tions, friends, rou­tines, mis­takes, wor­ries, triumphs and inhe­ri­ted cra­zi­ness. When your life moves on to the next scene, theirs fli­ckers in place, wrap­ped in a cloud of backs­to­ry and inside jokes and cha­rac­ters strung toge­ther with count­less other sto­ries you’ll never be able to see. That you’ll never know exists. In which you might appear only once. As an extra sip­ping cof­fee in the back­ground. As a blur of traf­fic pas­sing on the high­way. As a ligh­ted win­dow at dusk.

2. Exu­lan­sis
n. the ten­den­cy to give up trying to talk about an expe­rience because people are unable to relate to it—whether through envy or pity or simple foreignness—which allows it to drift away from the rest of your life sto­ry, until the memo­ry itself feels out of place, almost mythi­cal, wan­de­ring res­t­less­ly in the fog, no lon­ger even loo­king for a place to land.

3. Onism
The awa­re­ness that how lit­tle of the word you’ll expe­rience n. the frus­tra­tion of being stuck in just one body, that inha­bits only one place at a time, which is
like stan­ding in front of the depar­tures screen at an air­port, fli­cke­ring over with strange place names like other peo­ple’s pass­words, each repre­sen­ting one more thing you’ll never get to see before you die-and all because, as the arrow on the map help­ful­ly points out, you are here.

4. yù yī – 玉衣
the desire to feel inten­se­ly again n. the desire to see with fresh eyes, and feel things just as inten­se­ly as you did when you were younger—before expec­ta­tions, before memo­ry, before words

5. Klexos :
The Art of Dwel­ling on the Past
Your life is writ­ten in inde­lible ink. The­re’s no going back to erase the past, tweak your mis­takes, or fill in mis­sed oppor­tu­ni­ties. When the moment’s over, your fate is sea­led. But if look clo­ser, you notice the ink never real­ly dries on any our expe­riences. They can change their mea­ning the lon­ger you look at them.

7. libe­ro­sis

the desire to care less about things—to loo­sen your grip on your life, to stop glan­cing behind you eve­ry few steps, afraid that someone will snatch it from you before you reach the end zone— rather to hold your life loo­se­ly and play­ful­ly, like a vol­ley­ball, kee­ping it in the air, with only
quick flee­ting inter­ven­tions, boun­cing free­ly in the hands of trus­ted friends, always in play.

8. vemö­da­len
n. the frus­tra­tion of pho­to­gra­phing some­thing ama­zing when thou­sands of iden­ti­cal pho­tos alrea­dy exist—the same sun­set, the same water­fall, the same curve of a hip, the same clo­seup of an eye—which can turn a unique sub­ject into some­thing hol­low and pul­py and cheap, like a mass-pro­du­ced piece of fur­ni­ture you hap­pen to have assem­bled your­self

10. nigh­thawk
n. a recur­ring thought that only seems to strike you late at night—an over­due task, a nag­ging guilt, a loo­ming and sha­pe­less future—that circles high ove­rhead during the day, that pecks at the back of your mind while you try to sleep, that you can suc­cess­ful­ly ignore for weeks, only to feel its pre­sence hove­ring out­side the win­dow, wai­ting for you to finish your cof­fee, pas­sing the time by quiet­ly buil­ding a nest.

11.mal de cou­cou : n. a phe­no­me­non in which you have an active social life but very few close friends—people who you can trust, who you can be your­self with, who can help flush out the weird psy­cho­lo­gi­cal toxins that tend to accu­mu­late over time—which is a form of acute social mal­nu­tri­tion in which even if you devour an entire buf­fet of chit­chat, you’ll still feel pangs of hun­ger.

12.keyframe
n. a moment that see­med inno­cuous at the time but ended up mar­king a diver­sion into a strange new era of your life—set in motion not by a series of jol­ting epi­pha­nies but by tiny imper­cep­tible dif­fe­rences bet­ween one ordi­na­ry day and the next, until entire years of your memo­ry can be com­pres­sed into a hand­ful of inde­lible images—which pre­vents you from rewin­ding the past, but
allows you to move for­ward without end­less buf­fe­ring.

13. vel­li­chor
n. the strange wist­ful­ness of used books­tores, which are some­how infu­sed with the pas­sage of time—filled with thou­sands of old books you’ll never have time to read, each of which is itself locked in its own era, bound and dated and pape­red over like an old room the author aban­do­ned years ago, a hid­den annex lit­te­red with thoughts left just as they were on the day they were cap­tu­red.