I can’t remember the inciting event.
Perhaps it was a holiday, or maybe I fell ill. It could have even been a mixture of events, but there was an occurrence that helped me distinguish between solitude and loneliness.
Solitude was a choice. Loneliness was a cancer.
Being by myself was how I always recharged my batteries. Whenever I needed to regain composure, gather my nerves and come up with my creative best, I would look for seclusion. Some people tend to go out and draw their energy from being around others. They actively share their opinion, and as much as I enjoy being expressive, it never was my niche in society. I preferred to listen, reflect and stay focused on my chosen set of interests, almost naturally.
After being a recluse for what suddenly seemed like decades, I decided that it wasn’t for me.
Being alone became tedious. I started to feel drained halfway through the day without even doing anything. I began to wonder if I had converted to the dark (read: extrovert) side or if I had just become a victim of self-inflicted social abandonment.
Being alone to ponder over such questions never helped much.
Social engagement became a necessity almost as quickly as social disconnection had become my priority. I reached out to my fellows and colleagues, who seemed more than welcoming to let me in their social circles. I found their company to be almost always one dimensional. It didn’t take long for me to realize that keeping up with this company would be a detriment to whatever was left of my intellect, and that it needed to be cut loose.
In my resolve to not reduce myself to a label, I decided to make the best of my situation, and blah blah blah, here I am. I can’t keep writing about myself. I hate this post and the idea behind it. And I said “I” too much in both part one and part two here, which is killing me. So that’s that.
My life is a series of unfinished thoughts and unpursuable ambitions. This post will just have to be added to that long list of deeds.