“Introverts are collectors of thoughts, and solitude is where the collection is curated and rearranged to make sense of the present and future.” ~Laurie Helgoe
Thoughts. So many thoughts swirling around inside of my head. Some good. Some heavy. Some happy, others sad. From the fleeting to the stuck on repeat. Wild daydreams. Hopes and fears. Deep sorrows and gut-wrenching heartbreaks. Coulda, shoulda, might have beens. Self-doubt, self-recrimination, selfishness. Inner giggles over thoughts of irony, of private jokes, of embracing my awkwardness. Silent anguish, hidden from scrutiny and acknowledgement. Envisioning the achievement of goals. Envisioning failures. Seeing molehills turn into mountains or mountains crumbling into dust. Fingers sifting through mental photographs of the past. The heart desperately searching to see into the future. Confusion. Melancholy. Euphoria. Creativity. Endless hope. Ceaseless critique of self. Thoughts.
I collect my thoughts, swirl them round and round, shake them up and watch them gently settle like crystals in a snowglobe. Some thoughts get filed away like a cold case that has finally been solved. Others stay open to replay over and over again. Most are small, innocuous, but some are anything but. I write a few but not all. Not even close. Thoughts, like words, are precious to me and laying them bare is like ripping open my chest.
Admittedly, I think too much sometimes. Perhaps sometimes I don’t think enough, although I suspect that the truth is that I probably don’t speak my thoughts nearly enough.