Being an introvert

Being an introvert.

People come to talk to me. They tell me, I am a good listener. And they love spending time with me. Whenever they ask me about my stories, I do not speak. Because I love being alone. In a quiet room, I have my life. But is that what you want to know about me?

Or am I supposed to tell you about the places I have travelled? Maybe not as beautiful as you did. Maybe not as mesmerising or maybe none. I don't love making videos about how happy I am when I meet someone. I don't have pictures with my girlfriend, I miss her deadly. I don't every time go to a restaurant and mention of my whereabouts. I don't drink much, the last time I did, was white wine. And sober enough not to show-off about it. I don't smoke. In fact, I hate the ones who do.I love someone, unconditionally. And I know what heartbreak is.

I used to love writing. And every time I wrote, I used to sacrifice a piece of myself to it. So that I could convey my dreadful stories through words. It is hard to make words dance, it takes efforts and sleepless nights to find a perfect rhythm to catch up with. Every move, when your dance is so taken that you groove with the music. The same way, every word is so chosen that you indulge yourself in that particular story.

You call me boring. I’m rather, exploring. Humans are very complex structures to understand. Every person is a unique pattern to decode. I’m rather exploring, myself. Maybe, you should try too?