20 Habits of INFPs

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  1. Taking different routes to places because they feel more “unique” and “exciting”, like following fairy trails or something like that.
  2. Always trying very hard to focus on the other person and their face when speaking to them, in case we look like we are bored and are daydreaming, as we often are.
  3. Unable to resist the urge to try and befriend cats, and always getting disappointed when they turn out to be wild, feline creatures who do not warm up to us as much as they should.
  4. Falling in love with someone from afar. That’s it. There’s no plot twist, no ending: the only thing that happens in this love story is that the young woman or man pines beneath the balcony forever, while everyone else happily goes on with their lives, including the object of their affection.
  5. Wanting to be a writer but unable to realise this dream completely because of one’s scatterbrained nature or the reality of earning an income in this world.
  6. Scrolling through career options late into the night for the same careers or jobs—childcare worker, nurse, and other “caring” careers—just to reassure yourself that you do have some utility in this world despite your daydreamy nature.
  7. Feeling an urge to drop everything and escape to a farm somewhere and never letting this urge become a reality. Because INFPs, in case you haven’t noticed, are not good with reality.
  8. Wanting to escape into fictional worlds and lives for all eternity so the realities of life, such as earning a living in this world, never have to be faced.
  9. Feeling so lost in life in terms of career options you could scream, because it seems you were born for nothing more than sitting around in meadows, picking flowers and philosophising on the meaning of life. Unfortunately for us, no-one in their right mind would pay someone to do that.
  10. Making a decision to eat only organic and healthy food because that way one is more “in balance” with nature, but then giving it up because junk food is too tempting and you get too depressed not to rely on it sometimes.
  11. Contemplating, after realising how limited one’s career options are and how most of the ones INFPs seem suited for pay not very much at all, how bad would homelessness be, really, I mean, as long as you’re not starving it can’t be too bad, right?
  12. Wishing you were born into a different family, one that was able to nurture your sensitive, creative nature instead of trampling all over it, or worse, ignoring your “special needs” as an INFP offspring.
  13. Being unable to find things. Period. I don’t know about you, but there seriously must be an invisible wormhole following me around for much of my days, because that’s the only plausible reason I can give for losing everything I own.
  14. Gazing wistfully at other people and their lives and wondering how they manage to have it all together so well, so perfectly- poised and comfortable and happy. I can’t remember the last time I was utterly comfortable and happy in this world.
  15. Watching episodes of your favourite TV show instead of doing more important things, like chores. Actually, scratch that—reading books instead of doing chores, because reading is a much more pleasurable activity than pretty much anything else.
  16. Completing chores improperly. What do you mean, the dishes are still a little greasy? And that spot on the floor, I missed it? Well, I must have been thinking of something else.
  17. Getting lost when you go to new places and panicking to no end because when you get lost, you feel like you’ve fallen off the edge of the Earth and will never find your way home again.
  18. Rescuing tiny creatures, like slugs or ants, saving them from being flushed down the drain or drowning in a puddle of water. Because you care.
  19. Always being the friend who supports/admires/helps/compliments the other louder and more rambunctious friend, while silently daydreaming and writing on the side whenever you think the other friend isn’t looking.
  20. Having a long list of coping mechanisms for dealing with the realities of life—such as writing lists like these, eating junk food, and watching various movies—that do nothing whatsoever to help you to deal with the realities of life.

A Dreamer Tries To Help: Q&A

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Since the birth of this blog two years ago, I have received quite a few messages, through comments and emails, from other lost, lonely and struggling souls – many of whom who identify with the Myer-Briggs Personality Type INFP, but also people who are simply sensitive, often introverted and feel as though they do not belong.

It has become very apparent to me that this world pushes some people to the fringes of society – and if we’re honest with ourselves, we’re happier living on the edges than amongst the throng.

We belong in the corners and the crevices, behind the secret doors and within the hidden alcoves.

However, despite liking being “different”, it does make surviving in society difficult. Sometimes very, very difficult. And there are a lot of us experiencing those difficulties. So I thought I would start a weekly Questions & Answers post, where I transpose a person’s message for help onto a blog post and try and answer it as best as I can.

That way, it will help the person who is asking (or sometimes wailing out into the ether in despair) and also anyone else who stumbles across my blog who might be struggling with similar issues.

In my head, I have sort of, well, “anointed” myself as a little, quiet supporter for misfits all around the world. A warrior, fighting for those who are too sensitive, too quiet, too strange, and who do not belong, kitted out in silvery armour etched with gamboling kittens and books, and my trusty sword named Edgar Allen Poe – please, do not laugh, he is a rather sensitive sword (which makes battles rather tiresome, mind you, as he never wants to hurt the enemy, which completely defeats the purpose of fighting in the first place, in my opinion) and you will most likely hurt his feelings and I shall have to deal with the mess. Do know how badly sword-tears rust metal?

Edgar, however, approves of subterfuge tactics, which do not actually involve shedding blood, like encouraging and helping other misfits with words so that we can rise up and silently take over the world. Or at least feel a little less sad, tired, and alone.

This whole thing, really, was mostly his idea, conjured up so he could wriggle out of fighting our enemies, like Mean Corporations Who Care About Money Instead Of People and other Selfish, Heartless Nincompoops. Fortunately, it was a good one.

Songbird asks:

“I am an INFP female, 55 years old, but, in all honesty, not only do I not ACT my age, I certainly don’t FEEL my age, and I don’t look my age, either. I feel very much like I did when I was about 9 years old. I can remember my feelings of “not fitting in”, and how in the world to try to “look and act the part” so vividly; it’s because I feel those same feelings, now.

I crave time alone. I got exhausted on phone calls. I love to talk when the conversation is interesting, but I am so passionate and have such a hard time trying to explain myself and I feel so misunderstood that my talking is perceived as “excessive”. Although, I talk no more and quite often less than friends when we are talking together.

It’s just that THEY talk about the things that they all understand and want to talk about–things that I don’t really care about, understand, movies that I haven’t seen and don’t want to see, tv shows that I have never watched and have no interest in watching, etc. I want to discuss an amazing book I’ve read and how that book actually spoke to me, stuff like that. Sometimes I feel like I am being looked at like I have lobsters crawling out of my ears.

It is VERY, VERY hard being an INFP. When I get “labeled” a “talker” or “eccentric” or whatever, I feel that I have been somewhat permanently, dismissed.

I am also a musician, which just seems to compound the problem. I am extremely artistic and creative. I have taken on the “this is who I am, and if you don’t like it, too bad” attitude, and it works for me for a while, but deep down, in my heart of hearts, I just feel misunderstood. I am becoming worn out with dealing with people. It is getting to be just too much trouble to try to deal with. I would like to go back to teaching music in my private studio and not have to put up with he politics of dealing with a public school setting or all of the women that are found in same.

I have had my feelings hurt countless times, and I have forgiven, but I am at the point now that I am ready to not only forgive, but to just move on.

I am just too tired to continue to try to put forth the effort to fit my “square and eccentric self” into this round hole of “normal existence in day to day life”.

I love VERY deeply. I care very, very deeply. I do NOT give up on my passions and I am a champion for the children that I teach. They need me very desperately, a many of them have no one else. The problem is, I have poured out so much that I am beginning to feel that I need to be re-filled. If I were to try to explain ANY of this to anyone else, they would actually believe that I had lost my mind.

So, I just don’t even try. I just continue to suffer in silence. I have always, and still do, LOVE small spaces and to be closed in, by myself in the dark with only soft light, where no one really knows where I am, and I can read my book, by myself. I can have my dog with me and just sit back and read.

All of these things would literally make others want to look for the closest mental hospital to check me in to.

I am just so tired. Does anyone else feel this way? If so, and I’m sure that you do, how do you cope? What do you do when you get so hurt and laughed at about “talking too much” when you suddenly believe that you might have picked up on something in a conversation that you can relate to and explain yourself?

What do you do when you are so deeply hurt in your workplace and so close to retirement that you just can’t really leave? I am at a complete loss and I am actually thinking that I would much prefer to stand behind a bar in a restaurant and serve mugs of beer to people that I don’t have to get so “close to”, I can “chat” a bit if I have the energy, or not, and then, at the proper time, I can leave with my purse.

Any suggestions from anyone???”

Dear Songbird,

I feel your pain.

When I say “I feel your pain”, I don’t mean it lightly, the way some people do when they say it which often makes you annoyed at their insincerity: I honestly feel your pain, because I have gone through the same kind of pain.

Though I am a little younger than you are, I have been told that I am wise beyond my years – of course, you may disagree – and hopefully I can give you some suggestions to ease your suffering.

First of all, there is nothing wrong you with you. You just have a heart, one a little more powerful than most, and a personality which does not mesh well with the rest of society. There is nothing wrong or strange about wanting to sit in a dimly lit room with your dog, where it is quiet and safe, and read, preferably for the rest of your life. There is nothing wrong or strange about caring very deeply, or feeling too much.

Your problem is that you are burnt-out from prolonged, unfulfilling interactions with society. No-one understands you, and when you reveal your true self, even just a brief glimpse of it, you are subtly rejected, which, being sensitive, stabs you to the core. You yearn to speak on subjects that matter to you – the books you read, the world of the imagination, philosophy – but no-one else seems the least bit interested, and you are left alone and baffled, unable to form a connection with anybody.

What you have to realise is that you will never receive the validation and understanding that you crave from most of the people you meet. It simply isn’t possible; it’s like trying to describe what a jungle is, exactly, to a fish. So my advice is – and this is based on experience – don’t even try.

I, myself, have launched into effusive bursts of talk, only to be looked at strangely, my skin burning with shame and rejection. To protect yourself, then, stop letting glimpses of your true self seep out, because people who reject your true self don’t deserve to see it. If you must interact with people who do not understand and never will an atom of your being, then act. Play pretend. Make it fun, which will make it less tiring; see it as game, a secret show you are putting on that only you know about.

And then exit from the interaction, as quickly and politely as possible. Any friends who don’t understand you and just drain your energy – cut them from your life. For once, be a little selfish, and take care of yourself, and spend your time doing things you like to do, rather than talking about things you have no interest in.

But what if, as in the case of work, the unfulfilling and prolonged interactions are constant, and exhausting?

There are a few solutions to this.

One, is to start carving out as much alone time as possible at work, by eating lunch in your own office or classroom rather than with everyone else, or even escaping into the toilet cubicles with a book.

It’s best, I’ve found, to establish a shy and retiring persona in the eyes of others, as that way there is less expectation that you will be talkative and chatty, and you will be less exhausted.

You can also make excuses to avoid interactions with people (there is no shame in this as it allows you to preserve your own energy), either by professing you are unwell and are therefore not in the mood for talking (say it as politely as possible, not bluntly) or that you are very busy, and “exceedingly sorry that you do not have the time to chat.”

In addition, you can try and spend more time with your students, who are, because they tap into your empathy, perhaps a little less draining to interact with than the women at your workplace. To stop letting phone-calls deplete your energy, you can try (though sometimes you simply must answer some calls, as per the requirements of your job) to use Text Messages and emails more often.

However, in the end, these are merely attempts to put Humpty Dumpty back together using plastic tape. It doesn’t solve the problem, which is that you are a retiring and extremely introverted person forced into an environment that requires you to be extroverted on a daily basis. It’s like forcing a man who can only walk two miles a day due to lung problems to run a lap of his entire town in under five hours. It’s agony, like you are screaming inside every minute of the day and will do so until you retire – trust me, I know.

Thus, if you follow these tips, you are still going to be tired – just less so. You might even become more stressed and tired because people might start thinking you are aloof or snobbish, or asking where you start disappearing to all the time, and why, exactly, you aren’t eating lunch with them anymore or answering their phone-calls. If you think you can tolerate work by inserting these little “breathers” into your day, then everything’s good, and you will be able to wake up in the morning without feeling miserable.

However, chances are, if you are anything like me, the only true solution to your problems is to find another job, where there is less pressure or need to interact and put on an act.

As musician, this might mean, as you said yourself, opening a studio and teaching students one-by-one or in small groups privately, which eliminates co-workers and where the only interaction you have to withstand is with your students and their parents.

You could also try seeking a job with a different organisation, perhaps a smaller one, with less people and less pressure to talk, where you just teach, finish the lessons, and then go home. At the time, you should try and sock away more money into your retirement fund so you could perhaps retire earlier, and sink into the solitude you crave, and try live on less, so you can, for example, work only part-time and still survive.

I would not look longingly towards retirement as the gateway to peace and serenity. I don’t know where you live, but here in Australia, both women and men retire at 65, so it’ll probably be a good decade or so before you can leave the workforce. You need to find peace and serenity now. Finding a job more suited to your social needs, saving away more chunks of money so you can perhaps retire earlier – or have more freedom to hop from one job to another in order to find the right fit – and perhaps working part-time is the best way to do this.

As for not being able to find anyone to relate to, you could start a blog to pour out your feelings and experiences, as I did, or join a forum where you can meet other INFPs (like Personality Cafe), in order to fulfill your need for meaningful interaction without the downside of having your energy drained.

It’s also Okay to be a loner. Offline, I do not have a single friend who truly understands me, and, partly due to other issues unrelated to being an INFP, spend much of my time alone, or simply with my siblings who, having grown up with me, are well-acquainted with my eccentricities and do not reject me for having them (even though they don’t understand me).

If you don’t have any siblings or family members where you can be yourself, that’s fine, too. What I have realised, finally, after many years of pain and loneliness, is that you don’t need other people to understand you or validate you. In fact, if you’re very honest with yourself, you don’t even truly need to talk philosophy or books with other humans; just enjoying the books or thinking about life is often rewarding enough.

As long as you are spending your time in activities that bring joy to you, like reading, and understand and validate yourself, that is enough. The world has over seven billion people in it. It’s impossible for everyone to have someone understand them, and the truth is, no-one really understands or truly validates anyone; we’re all trapped inside our own universes, filtering the world through our own minds; we’re all extraordinarily unique, and some part of us will always be a secret to other people.

Even the people who you see fitting in, laughing cheerfully and happily, have moments when they are alone and they feel as if no-one in the whole world truly understands everything that goes on inside their heads. As INFPs, we are just aware of this alienation a little more keenly than other people, and because often we are markedly different from the majority, the loneliness and lack of validation is compounded. And besides, sometimes, we don’t even understand ourselves! Being human is funny like that. It’s all a grand mystery, and we’re stuck right in the middle of it.

I truly hope this helps you in some way, even if only a little, and I would love to hear how you are as time goes on. Take care. You are not alone in your suffering.

Love,

Dreamerrambling

If you have a question yourself – or perhaps a lament – you can write a comment, or send a message to my email, dreamerrambling@hotmail.com.

I can’t promise that it will get answered (sometimes questions overlap; sensitive and shy people tend to struggle with similar problems) on this blog, but I always make a point to try and reply a private message to every email I receive.

Perhaps I could make this Q&A a weekly sort of thing – it feels so grown-up and professional! – what do you think?

I do love helping people with their problems; it makes me feel like I am doing my part to ease suffering in the world even though I don’t have wherewithal to tackle big issues like starvation yet. There is so much suffering in the world, and if I dwell too long on that fact, I can’t function, so I try my best to focus on what I can do. Tears don’t help anyone; action does.

If it weren’t for my anxiety, I think I would have loved to be a counselor, though perhaps the sort of counselor who heals people through words or talks over the phone rather than in person. I’m better at solving other people’s problems rather than my own, which is both funny and sad, like so many things in life. Well, it’s always a possibility, even if it seems an impossibility at the moment — obstacles are also funny like that.

I love all of you. I love humanity, and I love people (at least from afar; I like watching people a thousand times more than I like talking to them) – it’s just there’s a lot of good mixed in with the bad, and the negative is often harder to ignore than the positive. Just yesterday there was an article in the news about a teenager inculcated with terrorist ideologies who shot a civilian near police headquarters in Sydney, and the dark cloud of that event still has not left me. It’s frightening, on a personal level, and it’s saddening. I will never understand why people hurt, kill, torture, exploit. Never.

PS:

Edgar would like to communicate to everyone the following message:

“Words are stronger than swords.”

It’s true, in a sense, I guess. Words can change minds, which changes lives, which then changes the world. But I do think some people in the world respond better to a knife at their throat than an appeal from thousands of suffering people – don’t you?

Being A Young INFP

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Well, no-one has it easy.

But as a young INFP, it’s particularly hard. In the past, I’ve been called out for whining and being overly melodramatic, for focusing on my poor little issues when other types struggle just as hard, but this is what I truly believe in: young INFPs have it hard. Of course, not all young INFPs have it hard, because not all INFPs are the same. Like all things, we come in all sizes and shapes and forms and, yes, even personalities. So I can merely speak from my own experience, take what you will of it.

Ah. To be seventeen and confused. Yet, to be a seventeen and confused INFP is an entirely different matter.

Other personalities wade through the social and business life of our world with ease; it is their natural habitat, and they swim free and gay as dolphins in pools of watery cash, flicking up coins with their tails in snickers of high laughter. INFPs, on the other hand, are more like butterflies, whose wings grow limp and whose flight is impaired by contact with such water. Yes, we can swim, but we soon need the shore, and are left bedraggled and miserable.

Within me lies such a conflict. Occasionally, I feel as if the friction is so great it could tear me in two, rip down the middle of me in a blinding hash of red glare and leave me two broken burnt human halves, quivering in hot indignation. On one hand, I want to do nothing more than throw all caution to the wind and throw every fibre of my soul and being into my one and only love: writing.

On the other hand, I am deathly afraid of the consequences of such a step. Every way I turn, there is a wise figure who says, with so sagacious a nod of their head, that to do so would be folly. That one needs a degree if one wants to eat. That the starving artist is not a romantic ideal but a cruel reality. That if I do choose this path, of working a dead-end part-time job and leaving on rice and beans in some cramped room, I will come crawling back to the institutions and beg them to accept me back into their cold bureaucratic arms. To chase magic and pumpkins, only to return penniless and ragged back to the home of my stepmother.

My heart whispers its quiet truth, but my mind is afraid to listen. For, like many INFPs, I cannot stand the structure of educational institutions, the regimen and the monotony of having information and learning fed and dictated like so many cubes of tasteless food. My idea of learning is to be set loose in a library, and allowed to read and explore on any topic I please, drink my fill from the wells of knowledge until I am bloated and sated, spurred on by natural curiosity and delight. The university campus grounds is a large, hollow, impersonal complex, of students scurrying about like so many blind tortoises, blinking blearily from their books and laptops. I have been there, and I have felt their cruel, cold smiles. It is no place for a butterfly. It is like setting me loose in an empty cavern of quietly silent, quietly bloodthirsty bats. There is nothing there for me, and yet I am told to enter this dreaded cavern, I am told to enter into the lair of the dragon and shed invisible blood.

Many things are difficult. Finding people I can connect with, converse with, is difficult. They all seem so caught up in the web of unrealities, of stocks and profits and economies, all of which are more evanescent and airy-fairy than my fantasies and stories. Do they realise that? Do they realise how much of what we worry about is but imaginary, like a town of people who fret over the arrival of dragons that do not exist?

Also, I am young, and I am lonely. These two things, when found hand in hand, is a most miserable thing. I am lonely because there is no-one I know who understands the slightest cell of my being. For the most part, I am happy to be alone: I am, after all, an introvert. But even the souls that seek solitude desire company at some point, and I am lonely, so lonely, so starved for another soul to pour myself into, for the liquids of our being to mix into a sweet brew.

Everyone has a demon, and mine is money. It rests at the bottom of my soul, staring up at me like a particularly smug and fleshy golden frog. Its bulging, batrachian eyes glitter and glimmer with harsh greed, while every now and then a yellow tongue flits out to capture and crunch into scintillating smithereens another fluttery-fly dream. Late at night, when I am dark and alone, it begins to hop, up and down, up and down, every flesh golden fold of fat jiggling and shaking in horrid mocking.

If you’re an INFP, you are also your own worst enemy. After recently devouring one of Sylvia Plath’s journals, and pressing my fragile heart against another kindred spirit through the medium of words and pages, the both of us calling out to each through the dried wrinkles of time like two people pressing their hands on either side of mirror (such is the magic of books!), I am in awe of her talent, and in despair over my own. Daily regime for me consists not of exercise, or eating well, but self-flagellation. This demon is smaller, but sharper: it sits perched on my shoulder, a tiny, nasty, gibbering creature, spitting hate and self-loathing into my ear.

To be burning on the inside, and to be baked on the outside. That is what it is like, being a young INFP, poised on the precipice between childhood and adulthood, afraid of falling into the ravine between. Cooked and skewered and branded by everyday life: every glance, every word, every person, every sound, every noise, every hateful, hateful noise. But under the layers of flame, there smolders something quieter and stronger. An unbreakable spirit.

And this glow, which is not flame and not light but simply a strength, extinguishes all the pain, blinding white engulfing the golden and orange, and propels my limbs into motion. I will jump out of the kiln, out of the pits of hell. I will stare down the frog at the well of my soul until its bulging eyes close in fear, and flick that detested bird off my shoulder. There are demons, yes, but they can be defeated through confrontation. That is all they are afraid of.

And then I will dance, with the soft, heart-shaped glowing pulsing in my chest, out in the open, away from the fire, until all the butterflies and flies and birds of the world descend upon my body in a shower of glinting, translucent rainbows.

INFP Careers

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**If any of you who read my blog or are just stumbling across it are needing any life advice or guidance, especially if you are sensitive, introverted or a dreamer and feels a little lost in this cold world, please send your Skype username to dreamerrambling@hotmail.com. Though I can’t guarantee I can speak with everyone, I will try my best. These sessions will be free, as I’m just going to be practicing my life coaching skills and developing my own techniques and learning how to talk and counsel people. Thank you for helping me practice and taking me a step further on this new little journey of mine, and I hope that I can help you in the process too. Please no spam: I don’t want to find myself contacting any creepy people, so it’d be good to send a message along with your username telling me a little about yourself. Thanks. Keep dreaming.

It is a truth universally acknowledged that an INFP (Introverted, Intuitive, Feeling & Perceiving) in possession of a conventional occupation must be dissatisfied with their life.

Okay. That may be an exaggeration. Perhaps you’re an INFP reading this who is perfectly content with your job and life, and to that I say, kudos to you. I envy you from the bottom of my heart because you have achieved something which I feel I will never attain.

After surfing through the internet and wasting my life for an hour today, I came across many plaintive posts in various forums from INFPs who were lamenting their lot in life, in having so wayward and unconventional a personality that it precludes them from finding a job that they like. My heart fingered out waves of sympathy from my chest through the computer and across cyberspace, in a futile effort at commiseration with these gentle, creative and lost souls.

Choosing a career is the bane of my existence as an INFP. Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m not a lazy person. Well, I do procrastinate excessively but I don’t want to be one of those indolent people who laze around on their couches all day watching television and living on welfare because they’re not bothered to get off their keister and do something with their lives.

I want to contribute to society. I want to help humanity. I want to play my part. I want to make my life meaningful.

But it is just so difficult to find a career or job that would be fulfilling. I feel like Sisyphus pushing that massive boulder up the hill every time I contemplate the issue. The thing is, many of the occupations adored by INFPs are few and far between, hard to get into and even harder to make a living at. I’m talking about writers, artists, film directors – you get the drift. I can think of no better personality type suited to the stereotype of the starving artist. But those jobs can’t put money on the table, can they?

Here’s where the trouble starts. I am the epitome of paradox and have a love-hate relationship when it comes to writing and money.

I know there are many writers who are making a decent living out there, whether through journalism or freelance or whatever. But I am so riddled with low self-esteem and bereft of belief in my own abilities that I don’t think I could possibly pursue a career as a writer, my ultimate dream. Why? First, because I believe that I don’t have any talent when it comes to writing, that there are scores of more brilliant literate folks across the globe that can do the job better than me. This self-doubt gnaws at me everyday. Two, because I come from a low-income background and have my mother to support. I’m not fortunate enough to have parents I can depend upon for fiscal means. I need money. Without the sense of security (and by security, I mean knowing that I won’t starve and be sleeping on a flea-ridden bed in a run-down house), I feel like a ship that hasn’t been moored, just sailing off to goodness knows where across the turbulent seas. And pursuing writing? It’s too much of a plunge, a risk. I’m too much of a coward. I don’t want to be poor, I don’t want to be homeless and live on the streets, I want to provide for my family and writing seems like a frivolous hobby that sucks away time better spent on churning out dollars.

At the same time, my idealized brain yearns to give myself fully to the craft. To become a starving artist and to hell with everything and everyone else. But even I know that’s not realistic and its selfish. Then there’s the fact that I don’t give a damn about the luxuries that money can provide. All I need to survive is a roof over my head (preferably one which I own, I like the thought of having my own place rather than renting a dwelling for all eternity), enough money to cover the basic amenities such as food, water and electricity, a mountain of books, a laptop and an internet connection.

This post was meant to be logical and cohesive but its just turned into a puerile ramble, as it always does. I’m just trying to say that I’m so lost in life right now. I realize that society needs accountants, lawyers, businessmen, doctors and that when it comes to survival the creators of art are kicked to the curb. But I know, deep inside my heart, that I have something to offer. INFPs are sensitive, compassionate, full of warmth, see the deep truths in life, are creative, good at inspiring people and bringing their own kind of magic to the world. But we’re just fragile faeries gobbled up by the bugs of society. I feel worthless because I’m not interested in the hard sciences that make planes fly and bring water to our homes. I’m interested in the imagination, the wonders of the mind and the transcendence that art can facilitate.

I want a job that’s meaningful.

I want a job that has minimal social interaction, preferably one-on-one.

I want a job where I can utilize my creativity.

I want a job that requires sensitivity and compassion.

Surely there must be some job out there that could be half-way perfect? Surely my abilities aren’t worthless and the only path in my life is to become a philosopher who drugs themselves to death or an artist who claws through life of poverty. Surely there must be some job out there for introverted, creative and sensitive people.

Surely?