It’s a Friday evening and, for various reasons, I find myself unexpectedly alone and with a few hours of free time.
Yesterday, I talked about the need for me to start going out again.
Despite having just said that, I feel remarkably inclined to revel in my sudden solitude and just curl up in bed and read. While there are easily half a dozen people upon whom I can impose my unanticipated presence, the prospect of being able to give myself over to daydreams and reveries is far too compelling. After all, I was classified an introvert by the Myers-Briggs Type Indicator (I’m an INTJ) and the fact that I’ve survived three straight months of entertaining people over a reception desk is a miracle that I can only attribute to a regular yoga practice.
Miracles notwithstanding, I’m very glad to have this (increasingly rare) chance to withdraw from the world, to collect my scattered energies, to finally indulge the hermetic streak I’ve managed to nurture most of my life until recently. There’s something voluptuous about being in one’s own company, about getting acquainted (or reacquainted) with the myriad selves that we harbor, about watching (for lack of a better word) the profusion of thoughts that parade endlessly in our mind. It’s from this kind of purposeless drifting/resting that my most creative ideas tend to originate, and its absence has left an impact on my ability to write frequently and well.
Which is why my previous announcement notwithstanding, I’m staying in this Friday.