"Today I feel the weight of my mind balanced precariously upon my shoulders and I am not sure whether it is a good or bad thing to be this acutely aware of your own head", I wrote in my journal recently. This is not an irregular occurrence. As a self-scribed introvert, I am often left depleted by the weight of abstract ideas and disorienting questions, finding myself lulled into drawn-out periods of quiet self-reflection and brittle social interaction.
Jack Kerouc wrote in the Scripture of the Golden Eternity, that ""Roaring dreams take place in a perfectly silent mind." I feel, I see and experience everything so deeply that reality blurs into a labyrinth of mildly authentic hours and I sleep in the evenings having failed to understand the day passed.
Frequently I ache to rid my mind of its heavy, constant after-presence and go a day without thinking or overseeing past events. To simply experience; suppressing the aches of days overcast not by clouds but by the greyness of my own mind, dulled by numbing interaction and later subdued contemplation, this introverts commonplace.
I am endlessly creating myself, aching to distinguish my own thoughts from the dictations of society and ardently acting on these aches to establish my own voice. But I am all too often held back by the fear of the after-hours: the drained, quiet hours, the lull in interaction. I want to find a medium, a permeated edge between being social and being alone. I like both, but one drains me and the other fuels me.
I am unbalanced.
This summer shall be a time of firsts and lasts; a period of exploration into the permeated membranes of adolescence and a manifestation of experiences and perennial memories.
A time to find a balance, I hope.