I posted this on my tumblr and thought I'd like it here, too.
An inadequate explanation
Part of me says I should be an introvert.
None the less, I am a blatant, almost to the point of obnoxiousness, extrovert. I need people’s presence like I need oxygen. My desperation for interaction parallels that of a junkie.
Still, when reading up on personality types, a kind of longing struck me as I read about the stigma surrounding the “introvert.” Something about that mind, that mind that is so comfortable within itself, so willing to search deeper, makes my breath shallow with yearning.
Activity creates a paradox within myself. I sense turmoil in my heart or mind, and any semblance of introspection is paralyzed. I become petrified with the thought of, again, delving into the often so chaotic soul that I possess. So, I do things. Each grocery store errand, each click of the mouse, scratch of the pen, footstep, word spoken, drips with the anxiety of the impending doom that awaits my idle mind.
I could chalk my extroverted, perpetually mobile lifestyle up to this. Still, though, in the moments where I have succumbed to the incessant whirrings of the gears in my head, and I have painstakingly made peace with the haunting truths that have hung far too long above me, there is restlessness.
This restlessness is not anxious. This restlessness starts with a new definition of existence. It is the only reason I ever “take up arms against my sea of troubles, and by opposing end them,” as it were. I suppose this feeling is the joy and grace we receive when searching for, and finding truth. An echo of the eternal world in the present moment. It makes my heart, mind, and body as one with the world as the sunlight is one with the air: consciously breathing every breath, consciously shaping every word, consciously feeling every muscle in my face move as a smile is exchanged between strangers, consciously noting every tendril tugged as the wind combs through my hair. This existence underlies my incessant need to DO. Not DO in the sense of doing for the purpose of doing, but doing because I was made to DO.
In this I realize that I was made with a creator’s heart. I can reside in my thoughts as long as I can produce something from it. A thought is a seed, and my head is a constantly overflowing green house that doesn’t need pruning, but expanse; millions of gardens of thought that the world tends to, and contributes to, and cares for.
Our world is a world of art. The comparison of the world of art to a garden is not cliche. Art and gardens have such a similar purpose: to benefit the world through beauty and passion. As a creation, I create; as an extravert I look outside and wish to let things my fidgeting fingers and mobile mind produce resonate with this world outside of my own little world of population: one. It is a world of light and darkness, of music, silence, anguish, comfort, of extroverts and of introverts.
I suppose whatever it is I am, whatever it is I do or why I do it, I’m happy I belong here.
If you're curious about my tumblr... it's basically only rantings and poetry, but here it is:
