When reclusives encounter someone with similar interests, the ease of companionship surprises and they start rambling on and on about the things they feel passionate about, delighted to have found sympathetic ears. But having been isolated in their heads for so long, it’s hard to really relate—to tend to the other person’s perspective and to reciprocate interest. Or so it feels.

Today I met with a woman, my doppelganger. All of her part-time jobs match mine exactly, and beyond that, our paths are similar for many stretches, including the discovery that we lived within a block of each other for two years. That was Fremont and the yellow house. She lived in the brick apartment building on the corner across the street from the Lighthouse café, where we all went for the morning dose. We never met until she came to look at an apartment in my building a few weeks ago, when incidental conversation revealed that we share the same occupations. So, we decided to meet and talk work.

It felt like I did all the talking. The same exhilaration that drives the first moment between future lovers is present at incipient friendships. So much is unknown and this is the first chance to divulge those details of the self that are jewelled in pride ... or deprecation.

I wish I had a recording of the traits exchanged. I wish I had designed a study to assess self-concept based on the qualities expressly put forth during a first encounter. What is it you want me to know about you? Why have you picked this one thing to tell me out of the innumerable details of your life?

Relevance to the moment is not a compelling enough explanation. If you believe—if evidence supports—the idea that whatever we choose to describe, no matter the content, is telling some story of our subconscious state, and that even seemingly disparate stories tend to conform to a that subconscious theme, then what do those first offerings really say about who we are?

I love thinking about that.

Thinking—the introverted person’s playground.

As though I had been locked in a room for years and unable to speak to anyone, I offered it all. Such that I left the café this morning believing I have to get out more and spend more time with intelligent, motivated women so I can stay talked-out. Alone in my head too long and the ideas build up, the self consumes others, and perception—reality—leans narcissistic. Or so it feels....

But that’s the thing about us internally-oriented people. If we step beyond our minds and into our bodies, we feel exposed. And that’s an error of perception too. For what is more engaging than listening to a person talk about what genuinely excites her? The longer I spend in solitude, the smaller my comfortable sphere of movement and the riskier incidental encounters become.

One of my favorite things: "Look! I braid my hair now."