A keen wind that had been hiding itself struck me full in the mouth and raked the hair back horizontal on my head. I was descending, but the white sun rose no higher. It hung over the suspended waves of the hills, an insentient pivot without which the world would not exist. A small, answering point in my own body flew toward it. I felt my lungs inflate with the in rush of scenery—air, mountains, trees, people. I thought, “This is what it is to be happy.
The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath
“a small, answering point”