You know who you are.

The quiet soul in need of home, a good book, a cup of tea to replenish yourself.  The one who knows that a mellow evening listening to jazz records in the comfort of your pajamas is a legitimate Saturday night plan. 

It is not enough for you to simply be out with strangers--seeing and being seen--filling up your time in an effort to be busy or important.  No.  That way leads only to tiredness and a dry, brittle feeling deep in your bones.  If you must surround yourself with anyone, it will be your fellow introverts, the kindred spirits who understand the intricate world that unfolds in solitude.  They are the ones you can linger over a pot of tea with or share in a yoga practice.   The ones who relish time spent together but understand--even appreciate--when you need to curl up on your couch, just you and a novel.

Other would say you are doing nothing when you turn inward.  But they do not understand the luxury of letting your mind roam unfettered, unfurling in the silence and tenderly probing one thought after another, then drifting beyond the borders of this world into others. 

In these silent hours, you begin to cast off that dusty brittle feeling in your bones like an old coat, filling your body up with stories and dreams and the gentle murmur of a heart content.