So here's where I'm at.
I think I want to be a writer.
And a reader.
It just feels so good, and so right.
But I have somehow managed to dispense my time freely unto the world, without hope of getting it back.
I suppose if I was still fully introverted, I wouldn't give away my time like that. Maybe. But in being social and extraverted in a way, I've taken any time I would have for myself and tossed it to whatever came my way. I hardly have time to read.
I started folding a book, and despite the fact that I am doing nothing more than folding the cracking, old pages of a worn out book into repetitious four-fold pattern, it feels really good. It takes my mind off of everything. I even tried talking to a friend and folding at the same time and couldn't (I stopped folding). It goes against my mindset of always trying to better myself, take every opportunity, and constantly be trying to get ahead. I've been saying that I'm doing it for the Room, but that's not true. I'm really doing it for myself.
I want my life to feel that way. I want time to read, think, write, fold pages. But in the world I inhabit currently, it's a very lonely, looked-down-upon life. If the people at work ever found out that I enjoy folding the pages of books, well, I don't know what they would do. But it would definitely include one of those "what the **** is wrong with you?" looks that I've grown accustomed to.