The other day I was doing what I’ve been doing for the past three months : sitting with a group of friends in idle conversation before bedtime. I didn’t have much to say, and I didn’t have the energy to generate something to add. Sometimes, when I’m feeling down, I huddle myself in the distracting warmth of their conversation. But that day, I didn’t feel comforted — just tired and kinda awkward.
My inner introvert has been calling me recently. At the beginning of college, I pushed myself to be more social, shedding the coat of solitude that insulates me. For a while, I forgot that I was introvert : I was always hungry for another party, another conversation, another friend. I kept myself up late with pal shenanigans and kept myself surrounded with good people and discussions. Solitude felt lonely, not recuperative.
But for the first time in a while, I’m craving seclusion again. I can tell because I keep envisioning “fun plans” of me doing stuff completely alone.
Like : Noah mentioned studying in Center City coffeeshops, and I relished the idea of sipping a warm latte at a single’s table — a nameless face in the mauve blur of a cafe.
Like : Paul expressed his love of biking, and I made it my goal to hop on an Indego bike and have a solo adventure along the Schuylkill river. I am wistful of going out, by myself, to contemplate and sit for a while.
That night, I didn’t go to a coffeeshop, but I made do with the fourth-floor fire-escape of my dorm. Wrapped in a blanket and gazing at the scattered glowing eyes of the nearby Sheraton, the pulsing lights of the city, the gilded leaves. I forgot how interesting silence sounds. Amid the hum of a generator, the passing cars sound like leafy breaths of wind. I absorb the peace. Silence fills me like water fills a pitcher.
My inner introvert has been calling me recently and — after my new college friendships have grown and solidified — I reunite with her with a sigh of relief. I blissfully feel like myself.