It’s all in your head right? That’s what everyone says anyway. Yet here I am, sitting alone in the corner of a café. Perhaps I should start a blog lamenting about the woes of a shy introverted sensitive and perhaps neurotic male. That paining across the room shows some finesse but definitely too narrow of a subject matter; African Grey Parrots are definitely smooth looking birds, but no where near the tier of association and/or implication you would come to expect in say a crow or raven.

I choose not to think about it. I choose not to ruminate over my supposed position of social detachment and/or inferiority. I damn well will sit in this pocket of mine and smile. Though it does feel nice to revisit that old pattern of thought regarding self-pity. Can we resign in to thinking too much? After all, I do plan my speech and actions ahead of time, like maybe three quarters of a second at a time, the span of which feels like an eternity in my own head, and through which, I feel that my communication from the standpoint of the listener seems disjointed or (at a minimum) does not flow. All while during the formulation of my sentences, three quarters of a second at a time, I am thinking about how I am thinking about thinking. Small, though intense spurts of mental energy expended in a fruitless attempt at bridging the mind and environment, as cold as it is to categorize people as being just that, the environment. At my best, I am another person; I am sociable and immersed in the intercourse of body language and ideas.

To limit oneself as a device of an over tuned defense mechanism tasked with limiting possible outside contagion into the insulated compounds of a seemingly delicate consciousness. Narcissistic to say, but I find myself so interesting, obsessively so, the epitome of a tragic, though banal, story. I carry this warped idea in myself that if I can express myself completely and accurately then others around could not help but take a liking me, and in turn, want to be around me. So what is the foundation of this presumptuous entitlement, an edgier side of me would say that this is the hallmark of a covert narcissist, much to the contrary of your run of the mill gift of tongue narcissist. A deep-seated wound of malcontent and aggravation that is employed in the subtlest and fringiest of ways. Though don’t get me wrong, there is no repeating inner monologue of self-affirmation [propagation] and beguilement, just the continuation of a rather disjointed and meek feeling existence. So could this be the story of overcompensation, in the most subconscious or unconscious consideration, instinctive almost? No one feels that they are the bad guy right? So alas, I am at a loss. Perhaps I just like to believe myself as being so selfishly inclined, but in actuality I am very kind and wholesome in respect to the exterior world, people included.