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It’s strange, I suppose, that after years struggling with feelings of being invisible, I ended up embracing hidden spaces, far from the madding crowd.

For most of the past decade, I worked alone. For nearly fifteen years, I blogged alone too, as the online fraternity made its exodus to social media, never to return. In social settings, I am the one in the corner, hovering by the tea and biscuits.

At this point, an observer would declare, “Well, you’re an introvert. And that’s just fine.”

But if I am one, I am unwilling. I didn’t choose to be one; I feel it was forced upon me. Certainly, I don’t choose to be talked over in conversation, or cut off midway through a train of thought. People say I’m shy and retiring, but I’d say I’m just polite, waiting my turn.

A true introvert, I’m led to believe, is happy with quietude, revelling in their place on the far periphery. However, I didn’t feel that way. In fact, I felt incredibly lonely. In some sense I still do, but I confess I gave up trying. I grew content writing to myself for wise counsel.

In truth, I am a reluctant introvert. Clearly the fact that I write so much in public shows that I’m not truly one who prefers to keep himself to himself. If I could wander out there before great crowds and make my presence felt, I probably would. Yes, if I had the social skills and a fluent tongue, I would probably join the performers performing.

But as I don’t and can’t, I withdraw, back into these hidden spaces, to be invisible once more.