I need to apologize to everyone who knows me. apologize, and ask forgiveness.
I live in this world with everyone else, but my version of the world is also populated with every character and story I’ve ever written (or thought about writing), and it is a very full place. these people and situations live with me, I think about them, these people travel with me and have existences within my own. they’re seductive; they call to me, plant seeds, send me messages about how they’d like to appear in the next thing I write about them, remind me of what I could do differently, sometimes tell me jokes.
thus, I seem to have less need for movies, television, and communication with other humans: too much is already going on inside my head and I don’t need more noise. I like silence, I contemplate, I let things marinate and germinate and grow . . . too much outer stimulation sends me mentally reeling in discomfort.
I’m not quite a recluse, but I am not as socially active as many. I love my friends and family–they mean the world to me–but I rarely “do lunch” or meet for coffee or even gather for parties, dinner, or sunday brunches. the wonderful–truly amazing–thing is that most people who know me forgive me this. but they need to know that I am aware of the gifts they give me by letting me be me.
without quiet time, without hours of solitary silence, I become antsy, irritable, anxious. cycling helps, but as the winter creeps closer and the air turns cold and darker, my outdoor, solitary cycling hours are lessened. indoor cycling is a group experience, full of conversation and music, not nearly as soothing to my soul.
thus I beg forgiveness from all I know and love: I am the quirky person I am, I live with more people inside than seems possible, and the greatest gift all of you solid, human people give to me is the gift of space. I love you for it.
merci et je’taime, toujours.