Introversion – seventy six

 

Introversion isn’t an inability to socialise,
communicate, or come out of my shell,
it’s a choice not to.

 

When you are not overwhelmed, influenced or feel the need to conform to the social behaviours, to the appropriated practises and often mechanical actions of the rest of people around you, when you don’t feel the pressure to be a certain way to please others or fit into their comfortable habits, you become a subconscious agitation in many uncomprehending minds.

It’s the irreconcilable idea that you have the ability to overcome anxious desires to be around others and can do it alone. It’s not social anxiety at all, it’s the opposite for a true introvert. It’s the ability to not be lured by anxiety to any extent and carry on your own way without even batting an eye.

But do you know what it takes to be like that?

Yes you can be born with stubborn resolve and an ability to see things beyond the average person, to overcome otherwise paralysing and habitual ways to respond to stimulus. But it also means there are things you must learn and train yourself in, things you practise and grind repetitively, things you drill ad nauseum, revisit and keep drilling. It requires discipline you don’t wane from, and that path is stoic and noble. It’s dignified and shows character that frightens people who haven’t got the balls to grind it out.

W.E.

Dear grief – 26

Dear grief 26,
I haven’t seen Dad in three years,
this morning, before dawn,
I got to smell him,
and hold him,
and feel his silken strands of hair on my face.
It hurt so much more than I thought it would.
I wept, and thirteen hours later as I write this,
I weep.
It’s taken my eyelids this long to break their silence,
my throat, this long to burst from its cage.
Now there’s rage,
shame, not guilt,
that I didn’t bow more,
kiss your hand more,
massage your feet more,
just a whole lot lack of more.
Waves of hate inside me,
towards me,
and there’s no recompense,
no console.
There he is abundantly graceful amongst God’s servants and here I am drowning in sin.
There really is no rest for the wicked,
that gnaw of your soul,
taking notes,
like a stenographer of your deeds,
tattooed in your heart,
beating between your lobes,
ringing,
reminding,
that grief is not ‘a thing with feathers’,
it’s a fucking jumbo jet with engines ablaze.
Fuck, I haven’t cried this much in a day ever.
You’re the best fucking man I’ll never be.
W.E.

introversion seventy two

When did my skin become real estate for anxiety,
and this world fool me to its allure?
When did my tongue choose the way so cowardly,
and my way become so impure?
My lips haven’t moved, and tongue hasn’t faltered,
yet still I’m victim to mediocrity,
my hands are frozen, my heart become hardened,
left bereft and abandoned without cure.

W.E.

introversion seventy two

 

Living in the past is depression,
in the future; anxiety,
in the immediacy of satiation,
ingratitude.

You assume fulfilment,
and forget it causes mediocrity.

You question your predicament,
and envy the comfort of others.

Where is your recognition,
of all the lowly and base things?

Your demands,
spat with ingratitude,
have become shackles around your ankles.

Had God willed, he would give you in your entirety to the world and you could not contain your condition, and beg for pardon to be returned to being a recluse.
Don’t assume your condition is bad for you, it could be that it is saving you from worse.

W.E.