According to society, I’m a textbook introvert. I love people, but I recharge when I spend time alone. I absolutely need ‘me’ time, to the point where I have to force myself to schedule time into my week to socialise otherwise it just won’t happen.
And it’s not that I don’t like people. I love them!
I love people whose eyes light up when they talk about something that excites them. People who openly talk about their flaws and vulnerabilities. People who ponder strange things like the personality traits of the number 5 (number 5 is an asshole, by the way).
What if introverts aren’t at all the socially inept creatures that society perceives us to be, but rather we’re just intolerant to bullshit?
Bullshit, as I define it, consists of both inane chit-chat and pretentious crap. The latter being worse than the former because at least chit-chat is for a purpose of attempting to get to know someone. Pretentiousness is purely trying to boost one’s ego.
And there’s quite a lot of ego out there. People who think that it’s all about being seen with the socially elite, having the best career, the smartest kids, the most money, the biggest toys. It’s draining because it’s bullshit.
I need to remind myself that it’s not my issue—they are free to waste their lives in their pretentious little bubble if they so choose. But hiding beneath the façade is a beautiful person that will die without ever being seen.
And for what purpose?
Maybe, introverts actually love people more than extroverts do. Maybe we just see through the bullshit and need a little space from it. Maybe we grieve for the people we have met but will never get to see.