prose

Outsider

“Solitude matters, and for some people, it’s the air they breathe.” ― Susan Cain

I sit here, typing away at my laptop trying to concentrate and trying to relax at the same time, not knowing that I hold a small frown on my face: brows are furrowed, lips in a slight pout, the complete look of being antisocial. At least that is what they must think.

But I am not. I am not being antisocial or indifferent or angry or depressed. It hurts when I start to allow myself to remember what a friend once told me, “But you love being alone so I thought it was okay, that you didn’t want to come along too.” I may be more quiet than most and I may have a resting bitch face but I am not any different than any one of you more extroverted types. I still want to be included in social gatherings, I want to be invited along on midnight adventures, I want to join in on the fun.

They look at me now, positioned in my cozy corner of the room and they give off glances. I look up from time to time and I realize that they are concerned. I turn back to my work and start trying to concentrate on the matter at hand but I cannot help but think of tiny little thoughts. I enjoy time away from others because I need to recharge myself. I take long walks at midnight by myself to think about life in retrospect. I go for long drives if I need to as well. I get high on more than just drugs, sex, and alcohol—I get high on music and sweet conversations. I listen and observe more than I speak. People do that all the time, I think to myself. So what have I done to make them so concerned that they would look from afar, too frightened to ask or understand the truth?

The truth that I am just being me.