What happens when an introverted Ennea-type FIVE, with a strange and beautiful singing voice, finds a nesting place in the spotlight? Well, you get Running Scared and Crying and Bob Dylan remembering how his voice “could jar a corpse.” You get Roy Orbison.
Introverts go to retreats the way extroverts go to Disneyland. Intros love the sound of one hand clapping, of no-one saying nothing to nobody—the sound of silence that Paul Simon made rhapsodic.
An introvert to the same degree that the Pope’s a Catholic. Sky-high privacy needs. Expresses self in drips. No EQ. Unaware of how he feels until two days after he’s felt it. Small outer world, big inner one. All of reality filtered through plus-sized head. Lensed eyes emit faint sucking sound. Considers his 150-pound body. Asks, What’s this for? Dream vacation: Two weeks in a turret where he can see the most while being seen the least.
I can’t sing worth a damn. But of course! Owls have no song.
“I gang my own gait and have never belonged to my country, my home, my friends, or even my immediate family, with my whole heart; in the face of all these ties I have never lost an obstinate sense of detachment, of the need for solitude–a feeling which increases with the years.” Albert Einstein
Men's Work 