"People empty me. I have to get away often to refill." -- Charles Bukowski
"Is this not the autobiography of every great writer," I respond.
But, in their response, other writers post: surely not so of extroverts. Among them, there must be a writer or two, though admittedly few.
To which I say, from my cloister: I'm an extrovert -- not by much, but, yes, nonetheless. I get energy from people. I need to scale life's mountains in my mind and with my hands. And, YES, people empty me. SOMETHING FIERCE.
We are so different from each other and must use each other to get what we want, which is not necessarily a bad thing. It just is so.
To clarify, I'm a writer-writer, specifically, a highly-reflective person who over-thinks everything except the golden things that I think just right about. And as a writer-writer, I am so different from "normals," especially from "normals" in a country as anti-intellectual as America.
I outlie. You must remove me from preconceived notions, logic, and analysis, or I'll junk your data. I'm a guest everywhere at anytime. You won't find me Home, where ever that might be. And I do keep looking. I'll never stop looking even though I know the truth.
This EXHAUSTS ME.
To me, people can't see "the obvious." Because it's not really. I've been thinking about It for so long. Then, I go for a walk. And set upon a moment when the bathtub of my head overflows onto your bathroom floor and you hurl apples at me.
People don't understand why I must stop and listen to the gray-black bird in the linden tree on my way to work to find out who she is even though I'm far too late. But I'll remember her longer than I might the fleetingly mighty man by my desk.
Folk don't hear the meter and the rhyme in things far and wide so loud at times that their elevator stops. And the chimes stop, but their box don't stop moving. And you're between the thirteen floors. And you twist and turn. But they're moving up. So they look at you. As though. You've got a gun.
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