INFPs And Earning A Living

money

Sometimes, I feel as though asking a monkey to build a Ferris Wheel using only banana peels would have a higher success rate than finding an occupation INFPs feel comfortable in – apart from, of course, the quintessential “I want to be a writer” spiel that sends parents all over the world into heart attacks at the kitchen table. Our personality perfectly predisposes us to the task – imaginative, creative, with a natural love for words, for thinking and pondering and spending great periods of time alone – and it’s been a firm belief of mine for a while that a great deal of the books in the world were written by INFPs.

When it comes to making money, however, we seem to hit a wall, against which most of us will beat our fists at for a great deal of our adulthood. I, myself, even if I did not have the anxiety and sensory issues preventing me from pursuing a traditional pathway for the time being, find it terribly difficult to slot myself into the machine. I think there a few reasons for this. One is that we are free-spirited creatures – occasionally a little too free-spirited. This not only spurs us to rebel against authority and tradition, it has other darker sides: procrastination, never committing to anything, flitting through life thinking we are free when in truth we are only sabotaging ourselves by not following a schedule and working steadily month after month in order to become an expert in whatever field we have chosen. But most of all, this means that the thought of someone – be it the government, or a teacher, or boss – monopolizing our time, forcing us to spend our days as they see fit in order to earn “money” we see all too clearly as being a sham, just paper collectively agreed to possess value, doesn’t sit right with us. In fact, it sits so very poorly that sometimes the necessity of earning a living in this world feels like a noose around our neck, tightening by the day.

Though some among us do end up making a living as writers, most of us do not have that privilege, at least not yet, and must “clock in the hours”. Thus, we end up in three possible situations. One is where we work at a tedious and usually stressful job that takes a toll on our hearts and our mind while pursuing our interests, like writing, or philosophizing, in our spare time. Another is that we end up dependent on others to keep a roof over our heads and food in our stomachs, as is the case with my life right now, living with my mother despite having reached adulthood this year and struggling with some psychological and sensory issues. The final situation is a compromise: we find something in our daily jobs to love, such as the connection or bonds formed with customers, and thus find ourselves able to bear it even if the other tasks involved in the job make us want to tear our eyes out. There is, in fact, a fourth scenario, which is that we end up homeless, extravagant little hippies living out of the back of caravans or in cars, and on the dole (if we’re lucky), despite the deep well of kindness in our hearts and our high intelligence.

However, none of these situations – and I am sure I don’t have to point out that the last is particularly unpleasant – are ideal, and sometimes not even tolerable. First, working at a job that wears away at your soul is going to have consequences, ranging from chronic fatigue syndrome, depression and panic attacks. Make no mistake: you are going to be miserable, and most likely bored out of your mind. Look, we’re quiet creatures who are energized by solitude and quiet contemplation – and most jobs either require extensive contact with people or are stressful, filled with phone calls and paperwork. Depending on someone for your livelihood can be just as miserable, and I speak this from experience. For one, you be plagued by skin-peeling guilt almost every second of the day for not financially contributing to the household and gradually see yourself as a useless, lazy excuse of a human being, even if you suffer from mental issues or have been unable to find or hold down a job due to your natural introversion or inability to tolerate workplaces. Our independence is also important to us, and it is impossible to feel independent if someone else is paying the bills for you – or, in my case, buying the groceries and even helping me borrow my library books. What’s more, INFPs need to be occupied in personally fulfilling work at all times, regardless of whether it brings in an income or not, which is why, although I do not have a job, I am taking free online courses and pretending writing is a full-time job (your imagination can do wonders for fixing your procrastination issues! A favourite of mine is to pretend I am in jail, and all I have is a laptop without internet, or a pencil and paper, in order to get myself writing). As for holding a job we acclimatise ourselves to, teasing out the good parts while tolerating the bad, well, once again, eventually, it takes a toll. Homelessness is the worst option of the lot, though living in a caravan or a car, if you do not struggle with any mental issues, can be, depending on your personal tastes, a viable method of existence.

Compounding this problem is the fact that our natural skills and abilities are not prized by the modern workforce, and are sometimes even liabilities rather than assets. We are highly empathetic, highly independent, highly scatter-brained, highly idealistic, highly imaginative, highly melancholy and highly introverted – almost the exact antithesis of the kind of person society values: extroverted, charismatic, charming, bold, a go-getter, cheerful, good social skills. All we have really going for us is our creativity and writing skills – hence why so many of us gravitate towards writing as a possible career path – but, as we all know, getting good at writing takes time, and you often need to support yourself in other ways as you build up your skills. So basically, what you have is a group of people who are creative, philosophical, sensitive and kind who find themselves without a place to call home in the world.

Granted, some INFPs do end up landing in jobs which are the right fit for them, such as roles in non-profit organisations perhaps involving writing, or as a freelance writers – but they’re rare, and those INFPs who are successful today in a field they enjoy often went through similar struggles due to their personality type before they hit their sweet spots. So what do we do? Where is this elusive home that everyone else seems to find and for which we seem to be forever seeking?

It’s different for every INFP, but I believe that our only true homes are our own minds and imaginations, the one place in the entire universe where we can be entirely free – yet another reason why writing is so natural an activity for us. What this means, however, is that anything which exists beyond the boundaries of your mind – basically, the rest of the world – will never live up to your expectations, and never satisfy you (this is true for everybody, on some level).

Thus, the only solution to living the life we want (once again, not applicable to all INFPs) is to find a way to live inside our minds as much as possible, where we are the happiest and often find the greatest fulfillment. Now, there are probably people out there who will disagree with this conclusion, because it seems to suggest that INFPs should, instead of going out there and truly “living”, retreat into their imaginations and escape reality. But they do not understand that it is only in the realms of our mind do we feel truly free and happy, nor the joy wandering through the labyrinth of our own thoughts brings us. The true reason why we find it so hard to find a place in this world is because we are internal rather than external creatures; we are organisms of the mind and the heart, rather than the body. Therefore, as dreamers, centering ourselves more in the mind and the heart, where we naturally feel the most comfortable, is the truest path to happiness.

I don’t know exactly what you would find most fulfilling – it doesn’t have to be writing, not all INFPs are natural-born writers or love writing, we’re all different – but chances are, it’s connected to the heart or the mind in some way, in that it is something that engages your creativity, imagination, and natural empathy for other living creatures. As long as you make sure whatever you are doing comes from either of those two spiritual organs, you’re on the right path.

The good thing is that your mind and your heart can be engaged no matter what task you are doing or where you are in life. If you are working at a job you dislike that burns your soul a little more with each day that passes, then use your imagination to free yourself. Escape during meetings, while waiting in line for the photocopier; it will be enjoyable, and make the time fly by much faster whilst also exercising your creativity. This will be easier if your job does not involve much higher-order thinking. Pretend you are a djinn, forced to do tasks for your unbending master, trapped by shackles made of crisp dollar notes. You can also use work time, as surreptitiously as possible, to write, or engage in whatever task that fulfill you. For example, write on used office sheets, or finish the work you do very quickly and write during the rest of the time while pretending to be doing company work. Be creative: write in office diaries, on Post-It Notes. It’s not unscrupulous – much of the workforce is set up to waste your time on meaningless, dull tasks just to spool some extra numbers into your bank account and keep you occupied, and if it’s possible for you to find a loophole, a rambling little path away from the highway, then, by all means, take it. No matter what your situation is, use your creativity to try and make life fulfilling for you, while still allowing you to keep a roof over your head.

For those of you who are unemployed and on the dole, living in caravans or cars, or dependent on another for food and shelter, the same principle applies. Just because you don’t have a proper “job” doesn’t mean you can’t keep yourself busy. It’s easy for INFPs to fall into procrastination and laziness, as we’re easily distracted by anything that flies by our way, and, with the Internet, the air is now filled with swarms of interesting flying things. Reading books is much easier than writing them; thinking about philosophy much easier than putting philosophical concepts into practice; imagining a flourishing garden easier than getting your hands dirty and planting one. Often for us, like most people, the more time we have, the more we squander it. So don’t. If you’re not in traditional employment, make sure you are still constantly engaged in productive and meaningful tasks, whether that is writing, or reading up books on Psychology, building your own freelance writing business, planting some spring onions in pots along the grimy windowsill of your caravan – anything other than being idle and wasting your time. Doing so will also help beat back the guilt that will swamp you for not working and contributing to society, because technically you are working, working very hard indeed, only you are not being paid for it yet.

Also, I would recommend you try and save your money and not purchase unnecessary items – not only will it help the environment, but the less money you spend, the more money you save, and the more money you save, the more freedom you will have. Don’t eat out, buy second-items and less-processed foods, save up for items that truly contribute to your well-being like books. This shouldn’t be particularly difficult, as most of us are quite content with very little, and have little desire for extravagances or luxuries. Pinching pennies doesn’t make you a cheapskate – it makes you smart, and environmentally aware. Consumption in the world is at an all-time high, flushing the environment with our toxins and wastes, and the consumerism model of a constant cycle of using and discarding just isn’t sustainable in the long-term. Besides, the best things in life, like friendship, literature and the imagination, are free, anyway.

What’s more, the more money people like us have, the better of a world it will be, because, being kind folks, we’re more likely than any other group of people to donate to charities and help people if we have the resources to. If more of the world’s wealth and power was concentrated in the hands of INFPs (unfortunately most of us only seem to make our fortunes through artistic fields, like writing and film-making, notorious for their low entry-rates), there would be less suffering on Earth. Take J.K Rowling, for instance, a famous INFP – she is no longer a billionaire because she gave away so much of her money. In that sense, we almost have an obligation to try and accumulate as much wealth as possible (out of all MBTI types, we tend to earn the least due to our natural skill sets – bankers earn more than psychologists – so it’s a tough call), to the best of our abilites, in order to help the people who need help, rather than let wealth pile up in the bank accounts of the greedy, selfish and less philanthropic, where it sits there, an untapped resource, doing nothing and helping no-one.

There are no easy answers, but armed with our hearts and our minds, our imagination, creativity and kindness, we can fight back, and carve out lives true to ourselves and make the world a better place in the process. We are often intelligent and discerning, able to see easily into the workings of society, the shams of the modern-day world (the crowning jewel of which is the economic system), yet powerless to change the terrible things we see, and often the most oppressed group of people by the system itself. You are not alone, however; a small percentage though we may make of the world population, we do actually number in the millions if you take the total world population into account. So, in reality, there are millions of good people, idealists and dreamers, INFPs, out there, who all feel alone, and like they are the only pure and good souls in the world, the last moral bastions of society, when it’s just that we’re a little spread-out – and it is this dispersal that reduces our power.

With the Internet, however, that no longer has to be the case. It’s cliché, I know, but it’s true: alone, we are weak; together we are strong, stronger than our wildest dreams. Can you imagine what it would be like if we formed a global network of INFPs through the internet, leveraging our combined strength to help each other and do good in the world? INFPs are, in essence, an untapped resource of kindness in humanity, and have been up, until now, being soft, shy, retiring, unseen, brushed under the carpet, our voices drowned out by louder ones. You must stay strong – for yourself, for other INFPs, and for the world (and really, when I say “INFPs”, I am in actuality referring to anyone who is extraordinarily kind and idealistic; the MBTI just allows us to find like-minded people more easily). Take heed my advice on making money so you will be able to survive in society whilst maintaining your sanity. I will do my part, continually honing my writing skills so that one day, when I am a published and established writer, I will be able to leverage my economic and social power to help you, to help any suffering people in the world, and to help and bring joy to as many human beings as I can over the course of my life. That is what making money means for INFPs: to allow us to survive so we can seek personal fulfillment and improve the world.

If you need any help or support in life, no matter what the issue is, please feel free to contact me at dreamerrambling@hotmail.com. In the past, I’ve not been the best at replying to emails on time, but these days I am making a conscious effort to check it more often, and to try and reply to every message that I receive, especially from INFPs who are struggling. Please, however, do not be disheartened if it takes a few days. You are NEVER alone; every single INFP existing in the world today, including myself, suffers along with you, and understands you. Let us support each other, and, in doing so, support the world.

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How To Stop Idealising People

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If you’re a dreamer, chances are you idealize people. It’s wired in our natures. We live in a world of imagination and fantasy, and we can’t help but superimpose our glorious visions of perfection upon those around us.

This can sometimes cloud our judgment to an unhealthy extent. It’s a good thing to see the silver lining threaded through the soul of every human being, but we have to understand that not everyone is a marble statue of wonder. Often, upon closer inspection, we find cracks feathering through the structure of our idols, and the weathering of age upon their visages.

But disillusionment is not the only ramification of idealizing people. Idealizing is a veneer of pretty glitter. It distorts your vision. You see a goddess instead of a woman. You see a superhero rather than a man. And by doing so, you prevent yourself from truly getting to know other human beings.

I recall idealizing a boy in primary school to such an extent that I could not even speak to him, for fear of shattering the illusion. I had also blown out of proportion his good qualities, and made myself feel astronomically inferior. I regret that. Maybe I could have got to know a really friendly guy, but my fantasy-loving brain got carried away, and left me with only an fragmented illusion.

So, what can you do to fix this?

It’s hard to rewire our thoughts, especially since we live in a society where celebrity worship is, well, celebrated. People faint upon meeting their favourite actresses or getting their book signed from a famous author. This societal glorification, a large-scale projection of idealization, almost seems to tell us that human worship is okay.

Sure, you can love people for their public image and their work. But what you have to realise is that everyone is human. I mean it. Human. Raw. Sometimes ugly, sometimes beautiful.

The only way to stop idealizing the people you currently worship is to talk to them and get to know them. However, if the wall of illusion is already built, and you can’t stand tearing it down, you can prevent it happening in the future by changing your mindset.

How?

By keeping in touch with your inner humanity. Now, this doesn’t mean feeling compassion for the creatures of this world – you have enough of that. It means seeing humans for what they truly are. They are not deities. They are just like you. No, seriously. Think about it. They are just like you. Sure, give or take some differences in terms of talent, money and looks, but, in the end, they’re human. We all cry. We all eat. We all hate. We all love. We are united by our common humanity. We all have horrible I-want-to-die days and blissful life-might-be-okay-after-all days. Yes. Everyone. That cute girl that sits behind you in class. Your favourite pop star. The president.

All I’m saying is, dear dreamers, that we’ve got to be careful and not create a land of jewel-soul beings of unparalleled perfection in which we’re the only sand-bag rag doll. It’s no good for forming true relationships, and no good for you, either, because you’ll just get up feeling terribly inferior.

And, hey, if you’re really struggling with pulling away the veil of moonbeams, just imagine the object of your idealization sitting on the toilet and pooping. And maybe not even with grace. Just the way you do it, slouched down on the toilet seat, playing on your phone. It’s a bit unsightly, but it works. That’s a sure fire way to drag the cloud down to earth.

But in all other respects of your life…

Keep dreaming.

It’s Hard Being An INFP Part 2

Confusion 

First off, I’d just like to say to you, whoever you are, reading this, especially if you’ve commented on my humble little blog where I splash my thoughts and dreams, that I love you. I don’t have much support in my life at the moment, emotionally and financially. Money has been very tight, and I tend to get very stressed about that. I don’t have any friends in real life who truly can understand, nor any family members. But through reading your comments, connecting with people who have read my blog, and just even thinking about other dreamers reading my blog and feeling a warmth flare in their souls, gives me so much strength. You can’t imagine. I wake up, find a sweet, sweet comment, and go around with a smile in my heart. It’s beautiful and wonderful, so thank you, thank you, thank you. I love you. Though I’ve never met you, you might as well be my family. I think all dreamers are related, metaphysically. A grand, family tree of sensitive, introverted people floating in the ether.

This is going to be another post dedicated to all the INFPs of the world. I wrote one previously which many INFPs connected with, so I decided to write another. Frankly, I can always write more about being an INFP. There’s so much…I guess you could say my soul is forever in discordance with the world we live in, and all these little conflicts create lots of writing material.

I do apologise if my writing is pitiful in this post. I’m not trying to make it sound nice, but to get my point across. So, hello, fellow dreamer. I understand you. I really do. Perhaps some of the things I write you won’t be able to relate to, but that’s fine. If even one person can relate, I’m happy. This is going to be an outpouring of my soul, in this moment. From the soul of an INFP. Imagine it like a telepathic conversation. And if you’re ever lonely, disenfranchised, depressed, when you get into one of those moments when you feel so low because the world doesn’t appreciate your eccentric, creative beauty, and only wants to snuff out your delicate soul, then I hope you can come back to this, and imagine it’s me talking to you, and at the end, giving you a big hug. I know how it is. I know how it is like to be you. I really, really do. I’m not trying to sound patronizing. Sure, I don’t know each of your individual experiences, but I’ve had those strange thoughts, felt that social rejection, felt out of place, out of balance, wishing to escape to a world of fluffy clouds and jeweled trees, somewhere safe and soft and warm and quiet and wonderful and filled with nature and magic and books. I KNOW. I really do.

I know that everything I write here will be meaningless, a sort of refined whining into the void. But I’m simply going to be here for you, for you to feel less alone. That is enough. This is simply a post of all you  dreamers, you fragile-skin and lotus-soul creatures, who see the walkways beneath this world and step on clouds to try and get closer to the heavens. This is the cybernetic equivalent of my finger reaching out to touch yours, the tips glowing, and both of us alive and warm and each other. As humans, in an incomprehensible world, living an even more absurd existence.

I am a natural loner. Though I’m sure not all INFPs are loners, I think we have a higher chance of being a loner than other types, with our introversion, propensity for creative endeavors that require hours of solitude. I am convinced that if I were never to see or make contact with another human being in person from today, provided I have an internet connection (so I can write on this blog and watch the movies I like – I’m looking at you, Spirited Away & Amelie), a steady stream of books, writing utensils, and a enough food, money, water, and facilities to be a healthy human being, even if it’s only a single room, I would be fine. More than fine. Happy. Much, much happier than I am now. If you’re a loner, you know that this kind of thinking is strange to the majority of people in this world, but that does not matter. You are you. they are them. That is all.

I haven’t disclosed my real age on this blog before, partly for privacy reasons, partly out of fear. But I think I’m going to now, just to be honest, just so you can get a clearer idea of who I am, and so other people in the world who are my age can feel less alone. Age is a relatable trait. I am sixteen years old. The reason I never disclosed my true age, sometimes even pretending I was in my twenties (I hope you can forgive me for that slight twisting of the truth, it is the only untruth I have ever written on this blog), was because I was so, so frightened of people not taking my concerns seriously, and putting down my personal problems, such as existential depression and distaste for this godforsaken world and its godforsaken people, to mere teenage angst. I was scared of having my concerns reduced to mere trifles to be patronized, because that is what has always happened throughout my life. I was the five year old kid who asked questions about death and made the adults uncomfortable. They patted me on the head and told me not to worry about things. I have been scared of that kind of fake, demeaning comfort ever since. So I really, really hope that this slight revelation will not lesson your opinion of me, dear dreamer. Age is of no consequence. My soul, as you can probably relate, feels as if it’s already lived many lifetimes, though perhaps that is just a romantic fancy of mine. Maybe.

All of life is a maybe, an uncertain question mark hovering in the aether, murky, an evanescent existence of no truth, no solidarity, no angles and curves but only blurred lines. This permanent fog is what we call life, and no matter how many times we glimpse bits of the big picture through parted wisps, we’ll never see it all. Do not try. I have tried. It only strains your eyes, and breaks your heart. Nietzsche said we were born into this world to suffer. As a dreamers, we have suffered for not being ignorant. For facing the harsher realities of existence. And we have been punished for seeing, not beyond the fog, but the fog itself.

I think, as a group, we are tired. I know I am. I do not mind social ostracism, for I have no desire to converse with my peers and teachers at school, any more than pigeon would with a peacock. I do not mean that I feel superior to them, but instead so markedly different that I might as well be a member of another species. However, one of the main reasons I am a loner, and despise socializing, is because it’s dull, and every single person around me, from my family, my teachers, my peers, are intolerably dull. I do not mean they are stupid. Some of them are probably more intelligent than I’ll ever be. I mean they do not see the fog, do not see life, and go about their ideas happy and ignorant, and I am like a woman who has seen death and come back half a corpse, unable to talk with the living. Some people, even very intelligent people, are so narrow-minded it makes me want to throw up when I interact with them, and hide out in a cavern beneath the seas, or hole myself up in a tree trunk in a dense rainforest.

I just thought of a good definition for us dreamers. It’s as if we were all born with a hole in our skull as a result of metaphysical trepanning, and now absorb far more wavelengths than the average teenager, or, should I saw, human being. Now I’m wondering whether disclosing my age was the right thing to do. I’m afraid of it tainting your view of my posts. I don’t know. I get scared a lot. Everything scares me, and everything makes me want to not be scared. Anyway. The extra wavelengths make us tired, for we cannot stop thinking, and thinking only leads to despair.

Do you find walking upon this earth painful? Existence hurts. I find it painful to live with other human beings, and I find it painful being the human being that I am. We dreamers are unappreciated. People cannot appreciate what they do not understand. A thousand thoughts on existence, mortality, truth, life and consciousness flutter like smoky birds across my brain every day. They peck at the inside of my skull. It’s so tiring, I’m tired, I’m tired. What are your greatest fears? As a dreamer, I live in fear of a lack of money, because gaining it isn’t that comes easily to me. I have to sacrifice bits of my soul and sanity to get money, and don’t like doing that. At all. Extroverting myself until I feel like I’m dying of fatigue, the flesh sagging from my bones. I don’t like that. So, I live in a fear of poverty, of an indigence which will make all art and philosophy meaningless, as survival always takes the front seat. I wish to amass the wealth needed to live the life I want, but I find all occupations, apart from being a writer or philosopher, odious, and society’s systems and institutions mindless and inane. High school causes me pain. I cannot relate to a single human being, and, walking through the labyrinth of corridors, my soul is dead and stale.

Other people always seem to have something that I lack. I don’t if it’s just because I have an inferiority complex, or if other INFPs can relate. Other people seem to possess this confidence, this surety about life, that I don’t have, and don’t think I could ever have. They walk through their lives with joy and poise, know their heart before they go to sleep and taste its juicy, coppery flavor when they wake up to perfume their thoughts, hopes and aspirations for the rest of the day. I feel more like an evolving Frankenstein, gangrenous limbs prolapsing and flopping, seams tearing loose like tiny screaming stitched mouths, new eyes and fingers and parts always being attached, a prototype in the working, never fully here, never complete, always changing and lacking and inadequate, a dead person animated with life rather than a proper human being.

Without a strong enough heart to guide the way, but a shriveled sac that sometimes flutters in a direction, depending on the wind, but mainly hangs, limp and deflated and unsure. Yeah. That’s the closet I can get to the experience. it’s a constant sense of insecurity and instability that makes life exhausting, forever teetering on ice shards.

Dear dreamer, I’m probably not making any sense. But other people just have this element of sanity, of rationality, that keeps them from slipping into an existential abyss, brain strands that keep them tethered to the rock of contentment, carefreeness and laughter. They don’t float towards the heavens, swirling aimlessly in the infinities, and feel a greater darkness bloom in their souls, a bee-buzz madness on their tongues.

Sorry if I jump from topic to topic. Just imagine it as a conversation with me. I wish I could give you a big hug, right now, dreamer, so we could both feel less alone, and slightly miserable. I’m happy being me, but I’m sad about how the world reacts to me, and tries to spit me out all the time. I’m not a cog, or a wheel, but a wacky metallic object that faintly resembles an alien creature with a thousand appendages. Don’t fit.

I’m wildly jealous of extroverted, steady people who seem to have their entire life and mindset together, when I’m a disintegrating star just trying to keep all of my radioactive bits together. If you’re an ENTJ reading this, though I can’t imagine how I would have held your interest up to this point, how do you do it? You are incomprehensible, so sure, so steady, so confident. But you don’t see. You don’t see the shadows, you don’t see life. Maybe that’s what I need, to survive in this society. To stop being me. To vanquish my crazy thoughts on reality and existence.

I can’t cope with reality. I don’t know how rational and logical people do it. I can’t. It just isn’t part of my DNA. I don’t know why INFPs are not extinct yet, because we are hit so hard by life, no matter how rich or poor. It’s a kind of struggle endemic to our personality. When people say phrases like ”suck it up”, or ”that’s life”, I want to cry. My heart hurts. Because I can’t just suck it up. I guess that makes me soft and weak, but so what. That’s who I am. I can’t suck up the harshness of reality, I want to love all human beings, help all human beings, I want to love and help and heal, but everyone’s so cold (oh gosh, I’m tearing up), the world is so cold, and everyone is so brutal and harsh and cruel, it’s so hard and cold. I have no place in it. Ouch. Ouch. My heart. My soul. It hurts. I want to love so much, to wipe away tears and hug people, revel in the human experience together, but I can’t, I can’t, I can’t.

Dreamers are sensitive. I will cry at the drop of a hat. I’m easily startled. When people scare me, my heart jerks for a good time afterwards. Loud noises make me wince and physically recoil. Everything hurts! A slight glance, a mean word, I can even read the thoughts of others sometimes, and they hurt me, because I know they are not kind. Only cruel. Mean. Racist. Personalitist. Hate you because you’re shy and introverted and not happy and extroverted. Sexist. Lookist (when people discriminate against ugly people, I just made it up, sorry if I make no sense in this post). It’s all this ugliness, I see all this ugliness, and it makes me want to throw up. I’m sick with the emotional toxins of the world, bloated with poison. Yuck. Get it out of my system. Please, please.

I honestly want to build a quiet community of dreamers somewhere on the edge of civilization, among nature. I want it so badly. Yearn. We could have these little huts, libraries inside the trunks of trees, pick wild fruit and nuts, hunt animals, drink fresh spring water, sing songs, love, have philosophical discussions around the fire. It’s unrealistic, I know, but I think it’s the only way I could feel like I’m truly living. I live in tiny unit now, with my mum, because of financial constraints, and there’s hardly a spot of green anywhere. It’s quite suffocating. I’m crying. That’s okay. I have you guys here. Or out there. You guys exist. Other people who feel this way exist. *sobs quietly with happiness*

Money. Jobs. Careers. Another painful topic. ARGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH. Ahem. Excuse-me. It’s just that, well, the problem is we’re RIGHT BRAIN INTROVERTS. Do you see? They say that introverts can get good steady jobs and be happy, but it depends on the kind of introvert you are! Left brain introverts have a much easier time, loving jobs like accountancy, being doctors, scientists. Left brain people in general have it easier. Whereas right brain introverts, well, talented as we may be, the only job for us to become an artist. That is it. A writer, a painter. We’re practically doomed. We are the epitome of the starving artist. I know I can’t be anything else a writer. It’s stitched in my bones. And I will endure everything to write. I know I will. I know I can’t get any job to pay the bills apart from one on one tutoring, with children, because I love children. I think, if you’re a dreamer like me, that is, if you are a writer, to pay the bills, you should tutor one on one in English (which happens to be my favorite subject in school, though the teacher makes me soul recoil every time I see her, this cruelty shines behind her sweet face, but, let’s not complain about irrelevancies). It’s nearly the only option that can sort of engage our helping, literary and creative talents. That’s the best I’ve got so far.

Well. I’m not sure if this post made any sense. If you got anything from it, that’s great. If not, I’m sorry for wasting your time. I really am. I just don’t know anything. Everyone seems to think they know everything, that’s what gives them the confidence, but I have realizes that I truly know nothing, and this lack of ignorance makes me vulnerable. Stepping out into the world hurts me everyday. I’m only ever happy when I’m reading and writing.

I guess my soul is just kind of sore.

– Dreamerrambling

Unspoken Words

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A lot of what communicate comes from what we don’t say. The unspoken words. The dark undercurrents beneath the sun-glitter surface of our words. The pauses. The hollow empty silences that roar in the vacuum. The gestures, body language. It’s the subtle things that we pick up, perhaps even sometimes subconsciously, that make up the bulk of our social interaction. Here are a few of them.

1. The glances. One flick of the eyeballs, accompanied by a well-placed arch of an eyebrow, and we have disgust, lust, understand, pride, envy, pity. Eyes aren’t the windows to the soul, but rather kaleidoscopes we arrange into the patterns we want other people to see. There is power in the human gaze.

2. The silences. You know the ones I’m talking about. The awkward absences of sound in the midst of bubbly, plasticine-mouth conversations. When someone asks something, and though no-one answers verbally, it hangs in the air, screaming, like a tortured fiend. The protracted droughts of speech, often known as the cold shoulder. Silence speaks louder than words.

3. The evasions. These are the fossil fuel words, the peat words crammed to the very bottom of the strata of meaning, while the jungle fronds of levity above wave about happily, hiding their oily, dark secrets of dead vegetation, hiding, yes, but not completely, exuding a whiff of petroleum. It’s the answers that don’t match the question, the light hearted replies that fail to attack the pith of the request, which cause the recipients of these prevarications to flare with anger or go to sleep with unease congealing in the pits of their stomachs.

4. The secret knowledge. This is when one person knows something the other doesn’t, usually a snippet of potentially life-wrecking information, and tries to look happy and act normal as they talk to said ignorant person, while the suffering accumulates like dried salt behind their eyes.

5. Body language. Shifting body away, cowering, chest thrust out, fiddling with hair, fiddling with fingers, biting fingers. The flesh of our interactions are composed of body language. They are a physical reflection of our innermost workings. So you may be saying you’re completely fine and okay with something, but your knuckles, clenched white as pebbles, tell a different story.

6. Physical gestures. A brusque brush against the shoulder, a squeezing of fingers when handing over the money. This kind of unspoken communication is deliberate, and can have Herculean, earthquake-shattering emotional effects on the recipient. A touch is far more provocative, far more deadly, far more meaningful. The tactile convey a dimension of feeling words sometimes cannot.

7. Plastic. The words are pretty. The mouth is smiling. The eyes are sparkling. But it’s all not real, glossy as a boiled sweet, and can shatter just as easily. You know they’re acting fake, they know that you know they’re acting fake, but you all just play along, because that’s how our society runs. We don’t yell at people to their face, we curse their name later on at night into our pillows. We don’t walk away when people approach us, unless there is a chance, an opening to do so – no, we smile, and stand and greet, as the bile rises in our throat, ripples behind our eyes like green seawater in the porthole of a submarine.

These are some of the unspoken words I have observed during my brief existence on this planet, and my interactions and observance of the interactions of other human beings. The slimy, putrid guts that broil beneath the satiny skin of our interplays.

Sticks and stones may break my bones, words may break my mind, but the unspoken breaks my soul.

It Is Hard Being An INFP

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It Is Hard Being An INFP

**To get INFP and general life advice, or Skype counselling conversations, or to choose a blog topic, click HERE or the link: http://www.patreon.com/dreamerrambling

Okay.

It is hard being an INFP (Check out the Myer-Briggs Personality Test if these four letters mean as much to you as leaves at the bottom of a teacup).

I mean REALLY hard.

Every day I feel like I am actually an alien masquerading as a human.

INFPs should live and be nurtured in a magical, ethereal land (see above image) where dreamers are appreciated, not trapped in the bell jar of reality. It may be fine for other people but it suffocates our souls.

Gah. It’s so hard to explain the torment. It’s like you’re on an entirely different wavelength from everyone else around you. And I don’t mean INFPs on are on a more intellectually or morally superior level. No, we’re just different from the norm. A little unconventional. And we know how much society hates that, don’t we?

When other people chase after money, INFPs look for passion, fulfillment and meaning. No, seriously. If money wasn’t needed for basic necessities such as food, we couldn’t give a damn about it. I can’t understand this consumer driven society. It’s just stuff. It’s just money. Just why is it so important to people? Mentioning this in public is not the best idea. I get sneered at for being unrealistic. And the conflict between passion and money is a never-ending war inside of me… Things like fame and money entice people enough to make them chase after them all their lives…and then on their deathbed they realize their hands and hearts are empty.

I’m also so sensitive I’m unsuitable for existence. One wrong word cuts me to the bone and I will mull over it miserably for days on end. I hate conflict so much that after going through one I feel like I’ve run a marathon. I just hurt so easily, there’s no emotional skin. I blush, I blunder, I make a fool out of myself and I can feeling the judging stares burn into my skin.

I care so much it hurts. I care so much I use up energy involuntarily. I try not to think about people or animals who are suffering not because I’m heartless but because it makes my chest tighten with agonizing empathy.

Whenever I talk to people, it’s like there is always this barrier. Always. Everyone else seem so carefree, like they belong, the words flowing out of their mouths with ease but me…I have to fake my way through it. No one around me wants to talk about the things I want to: death, existence, love, humanity, how insignificant Earth is, how the universe is so large it’s frightening, why we are here on this earth anyway and whether it all means anything. It’s too ‘morbid’ for light conversation and people just prevaricate my philosophical questions to go talk about the latest movies or whatever.

I can read people relatively well. I can tell which people are genuine and goodhearted, which are artificial and selfish. I can see through people’s masks. But no one else seems to see it. I knew this girl who was so artificial and arrogant when I was in school. But everyone loved her and thought her to be brilliant. No one saw through the façade. I felt like such an outsider, like I was seeing a ghost no one else saw.

I’m not an efficient person. My table is a mess. I never remember to wash dishes. I forget things. I’m always at the butt end of jokes because of this, that ‘scatter-brained’ person who is eccentric and can’t do anything properly.

When it’s one of those days where I’m engulfed with the meaninglessness of existence and slightly gloomy, I’m labeled as being depressed and pessimistic. I’m told to see the ‘silver lining’ and to be happy and jolly and optimistic and all smiles and gapped teeth. As if you’re defective if you aren’t happy-go-lucky most of the time.

I just have all these ideals and dreams and they’re like fragile glass windows through which I see the world. And life shatters them and I become jaded and cynical.

I think about existence and life and other deep topics which are not socially acceptable to voice and the burden of all this pondering weighs upon me every day.

Books and writing and creativity are my life blood. They pump me with feeling and energy to live another day in the real world.

I don’t know where I’m going with this post. I just can’t seem to put into words this feeling of being isolated and different, like no one understands. I’ve been to psychologists who have been nice enough but once I voice my concerns about death or something and they smile at me with only their mouths, I know I’m talking to the wrong person.

I don’t know. It’s just hard. I don’t know what else to say. People don’t know what it’s like sometimes unless they’re in an INFP’s shoes. It’s like the world is full of robust butterflies and among them are these tiny little white moths who are the INFPs and they are batted and bruised and pushed this way and that by the butterflies and the wind and life forever and ever.

I don’t know what else to say. So I think I’ll just stop now. This is probably a horribly boring and aimless post. I’m sorry.