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.

2 thoughts on “Intrawriter


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