To understand something, I had to sacrifice parts of myself. Understanding requires letting go of love. There is nothing more contradictory yet insightful than Leonardo da Vinci's statement that we cannot truly love or hate something until we comprehend it.

Being alone crushes me, but being around others feels suffocating. The presence of another person throws off my thoughts. I daydream about being near someone with a strange kind of detachment that my logical mind cannot fully explain.

Isolation has shaped me in its own image. The mere presence of another person—any person—immediately slows my thinking. For most people, interacting with others sparks conversation and wit, but for me, it has the opposite effect. When I'm alone, I can come up with witty remarks, clever comebacks to imaginary conversations, and flashes of social charm. But all of this disappears when I'm actually with someone; I lose my ability to think clearly, I can't speak well, and after just half an hour, I feel exhausted. Socializing makes me feel like I need to sleep. Only my imaginary friends and the conversations I have in my mind or dreams feel real and meaningful, and it's in these moments that my intellect shines, like a reflection in a mirror.

The thought of having to interact with someone else makes me anxious. Even a simple invitation to have dinner with a friend creates a vague sense of dread in me. The idea of any social commitment—going to a funeral, dealing with someone about work, or even waiting for someone at a station—disrupts my thoughts for an entire day. Sometimes, I start worrying the night before, which makes it hard to sleep. When the dreaded interaction happens, it usually turns out to be insignificant, not warranting all the anxiety, yet the next time is no different: I never seem to learn how to cope.

"My habits are those of solitude, not of people." I don't know whether it was Rousseau or Senancour who said this. But it was from some mind similar to mine, a sentiment that feels fitting for someone of my nature.