Fists clenched, nails torn. Just another day gone by where feeling cheated and ripped in two are the norm. Anxiety.
They call me social recluse, they call me introvert yet they never think to take one look beyond this dark and plain book cover. Read the content, to fathom whether or not my story line has any meaning or if I can be the next popular best seller. Thrown back on the pile, left for the next to try until finally I lose faith. Become a solo warrior. Lone or not they will see me rise.
Taking on this world with no immediate person to call upon for help. I am solo warrior. Every last millimeter of me now swollen, hairs stood on end with a solemn shiver down the spine. Fire in the eyes, anxiety in my heart with fingers ready to let out spurs of pure explosion. This feeling is all too familiar, my cheeks burn rosy red but embarrassed I am not. Looking around everyone else is, looking right through I don’t give a fuck. Middle finger, anxiety. Middle finger, pain. Not today my too familiar enemy.
Honestly just a stroll down the street now haunts me. Nails and finger fumbling are my strategy discreetly hoping that they are unnoticed, I see others share the same and immediately I am filled with hope and belonging. Here I am welcome and can now be myself. Alone no more, surrounded by stress and worry together we conquer.
A gathering of solo warriors now becomes a team, staring the anguish in its eyes. This time, introverts sit together perhaps alone on the sofa but always drawn together. A cup of freshly dripped tea in hand with just one thing missing. A friend.