This is a very interesting theme for me personally. Growing up I was the epitome of what is defined as a social butterfly. I had to always be on the go. Even when I was at home, alone, I was on the phone, moving from one person to the next. It seemed as if I had no choice but to keep myself connected.
Then, and I can't really pinpoint where or when it occurred, but things just grew to such a level of exhaustion, I found the slightest interactions would drain me of all I had. Vitality would return but only after a nice period of relaxation, where a mindlessness took hold of me and take me to points unseen, sort of freezing me, in a state of nothingness, unaware of everything around, and yet, completely forgiving me for having ignored the introvert within.
Somehow, a shift had taken place, moving from extroversion to introversion, and I had no idea how it happened. All I can say, is that alone time is something I cherish more than anything. Whether it's spent watching television, reading a book, listening to music, writing or simply blanking out and staring deep into the walls, allowing the mind to completely take recess, or, where my imagination takes the opportunity to work through ideas the conscious mind had brought up earlier in the day. This last notion, has a somewhat similar effect as when you think about something before going to sleep at night, allowing your unconscious mind, the opportunity in its dream-states, to sort it out, and oftentimes, finding that when you awoke the next morning, a possible answer to your question had been provided.
I could go on for a while discussing this odd paradigm shift, but truth be told, I have really no explanation for the shift. I've mentioned this already, but repeat it only because of how baffling it is, and how important the notion is to me.
I could also go on and on about how that old self, while knowing it did exist, and many of the memories from such times are clearly available as they had occurred, I find myself, after reliving one of these moments, to be exhausted. Yet, even thought I can remember some of the times when I was an extrovert, I have to admit, they feel like fiction, in almost every aspect, except, again, I cannot deny their one-time existence, because I know they did exist.
I think there's a place for being both an extrovert and an introvert, in fact i think we all hold each of these in us somehow, with one being more dominant, that's all.
So, all this backstory behind me know, I thought I would write a description of one of the things I find I do quite often. I sit still facing an empty wall and allow myself to drift away, or more likely, I am found laying in bed, eyes open, staring at the ceiling, permitting my mind to go wherever it chose to. In such activities, I believe I find a sense of solitude, perhaps not the kind one gets when out and about in nature or in prayer, yet, it is a type of solitude nevertheless:
INTROVERT SOLITAIRE
Introvert
Solitaire
Standing
in solitude
Is
like a blissful sea, where the
Ragged
weights
Atop
the chest—
Limbs
shake free
Each
their now
Blackened
leaves
To
where you stop
Close
the door
Behind
and sigh…
Moving
to the bed
Fully
clothed as was,
Breathing
in holistic
Rhythms…waiting
for
The
waves of paralysis
To
lift their untimely
Shores…Focusing,
Intently
upon the
Individualized
minutia
Of
the long crack that
Runs
alongside the ceiling…
And
in that crack, grow
Succumbed…transported
To
the world of the imagined…
Where
peace is simple, easy
And
well-granted to any and
All
who seek it out. The stories
Are
deeper, yet without prerequisites
Do
its characters speak…instead
The
only talk when spoken to, where
You
realize, there is so much untapped
Potential
in gesturing…where one could,
If
so desired, effectively communicate
Detailed
instructions, simply from the
Effective
use of head movements…finally…
As
the crack begins
To close
The space seems to
separate
Allowing the air
It’s
chance at a brand-new choice
Inhalation of vitality once anew grasped
Where it
will stay
Open and free until some
Unknowing soul
Events
to invent a reasoning for
harboring their expectations
Upon my port…in a storm of unease
That
prematurely stifles creativity….
Never
do I wish I was the one I was before…that person Is a stranger, I know, no
longer, anymore…he barely shows in memory…in fact…despite the knowing of the
factuality…. he feels like a figment of a made up wish fulfillment fantasy…yet
it’s more like a nightmare
And
I have to pause
Into
solitude
Crystals
and all
Never
claiming
A
fortress was behind me
Securing
me deeply, but
Out,
as super,
Will
I one day crawl,
Is
the question of it all,
Isn’t
it?
