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In earlier times, I would crave attention, but would find it withheld. Nowadays, it alarms me. Perhaps that’s because it’s the wrong kind of attention. Because I don’t know who they are, or what their intentions are. Of course, that’s the nature of the open web. Unless they choose to engage with you, your readers are always anonymous and unknown.

In the normal order, the writer seeking an audience chases likes and shares, and great followings. The twitterer rejoices when a sentence they uttered goes viral, giving them that momentary dopamine high.

What’s wrong with me that I don’t do the same? Perhaps it’s because I gave up trying, and grew content wittering away mostly to myself, ignored. In that, I found freedom to truly express myself, without forever playing to the crowd. Certainly, it was a great mercy that I was never celebrated and embraced, transformed into a household-name, referenced all over. Pity the celebrity burdened by an untamed ego.

So it is that I quickly withdraw when the crowd descends. I can’t help it. Long ago, I wanted to be the cool kid: the centre of attention. But in the decades since then, I’ve accepted that wasn’t my station. Perhaps I am content now being the loner out on the far periphery. Perhaps this is where I feel I belong. Perhaps that’s why I run whenever I am found.