This is something I should probably have tattooed on my forehead: INTROVERT.
I mentioned this before, but few actually picked up on it. Basically, I recharge energy by being alone with my thoughts and expend energy being around other people. Even around nice people. Even around people I like. Even around the people who are most precious to me.
For a long time, though, it's been a struggle since I have absolutely no desire to be an extrovert. I enjoy my rich inner life. I love living in my own little world. In fact, that's what playwriting is for me: giving people a piece of one of those many worlds I inhabit on a day-to-day basis. I'm privately and frequently grateful for the secret gift of being able to experience the sacredness of the most trivial things: sunlight streaking through clouds, smell of rain, the caress of a breeze, trees applauding and pretending they sit by the sea, flourescent green flight of a lunar moth, winking headlights of a passing car, twin rainbows against a slate gray sky, brilliant corona of a full moon on a cloudless night, strands of cool grass tickling my feet, stars talking in a language like tapping on crystal, darkness and silence within the womb of the universe, the decomposition of dead things, the transformation from seed to flower.
But when I'm around people - at least, when I'm fully present around people - I can't sense those things. Some sort of distortion happens, like a cell phone on an airplane during take-off. I can't get my bearings, can't tell North from South, sea from sky, self from mask. And the real me, the me that's supposedly behind this, sort of just tailspins.
It's at these moments when I sometimes experience extrovert envy. I guess the moon feels the same of the sun at times. Then she remembers the beauty and mystery and power of night, of darkness, of silence. Then doesn't mind the new moon phase where she isn't seen.