Recently, I find myself contemplating the extent of my social awkwardness. To clarify, why I feel the way I do around people.
Stranger yet, I find a growing feeling of solace while writing.
Comfort in being alone and recording thoughts on my laptop.
Most of the time, I go about my day imagining I’m writing, but my thoughts never make it to virtual paper. I’ve written stories, created painfully detailed characters and plots without a single key stroke.
Is this weird? Am I really that much of an introvert?
Sometimes I feel I could live within my own head. No need for any outside form of entertainment; my imagination wanders unbounded. I could sit in a dark room, let my body deteriorate, and be happy telling myself fantastical tales.
Even now I feel like I’m having an intellectually conversation with someone, only it is me, my thoughts.
Maybe this formula will make me a good writer? Or is this just a precursor for my impending insanity?
Perhaps I will just put words down on paper more often. If I find moderate success, I’ll be artistic, instead of weird.