I think I believe that writing or speaking something calls it into a tangible existence, whereas if it remains but a thought, it has no real basis in reality.  This is the foundation for how I find myself lying to myself in my journal (my real journal, the one I write in and only I read).  Or, not lying necessarily, but not telling the truth–to myself.  But I always know the difference.  I know it then, and I know it later.  Sometimes when I tell these “lies” to friends, they can tell.  Not always–it depends on the lie and the friend.

I had a conversation yesterday about how I’m not your average introvert.  Yes, I am most certainly an introvert: I get my energy from being alone and require alone time regularly to be able to continue interacting with the outside world without wanting to hurt them for talking to me.  But I am considered outgoing (in some situations), and I am a talker.  I have always been a talker.  And I talk before I think (this is always a problem).  Introverts aren’t known for that, not really.

I decided that the difference with me is that while I am a talker, while I like interacting with people (until my energy stores are depleted), the things I talk about are frequently not the heart issues that matter to me.  Or if they are, they are with trusted people, and those things have been considered and mulled over before they are spoken.  I can talk about surface or frivolous things until the cows come home (sometimes I wonder if this is something I developed in self-defense against the world of extroversion).  But if you want me to talk about something real, and it’s something I haven’t given a lot of thought to, it is extremely unlikely that I will do so.  And most people will never get the privilege of those real things, because they’re not the people I care to really give part of myself to.

I am also a verbal processor, so thank God for the friends who I can trust to listen to my musings and be a sounding board for my confusion.  However, those things are usually not brought up until I’ve had the time to consider them for myself.

Tying this all in: putting your heart out there, in the bald and naked ways of words, both written and spoken, is a terrifying thing.  It is a commitment to an idea, a purpose, a direction.  And, apparently, sometimes I’m not even sure I’m ready for that in my own private sphere.

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