I spend a lot of time on my own. I prefer it that way. Yet I feel some guilt around it, as though I should be doing more to get out and socialise. Part of this is because of other people’s opinions, and part of it is because I’m supposedly wasting my life.
The thing is, it doesn’t matter if I’m seen as wasting my life. By whose yardstick do we measure a life’s worth, if indeed life has any intrinsic worth in any case?
Here’s the thing: everything dies, the whole universe is predicated on entropy. This undercuts any value or worth we artificially apply to life. Doesn’t it? As a teenager I read a lot of existentialists, and the overarching premise that we’re all just distracting ourselves from the oblivious uncaring universe still cloaks my thinking.
The notion of extroversion and introversion has become popular again recently, best-selling books have been written and acres of opinions posted to blogs. I fall neatly into the introversion category which would be fine, apart from no matter how far I like to think I can rise above such simplistic categorisation, once you’re in the box you can’t escape.
And so on the rare occasion I attend a social event, I go there with a head full of definitions, which predetermine my attitudes and behaviours before I even arrive. They become a self-fulfilling prophesy, everything described in the books and blog posts being played out almost unconsciously. A change would mean making an effort to break the habit, to consciously play the role of another person, fake it ‘til I make it. Maybe one day I’ll try, but I doubt it. It just doesn’t matter.