Delayed discovery

Anyone who's known me for longer than five years (specifically the last five years) will know that I spent the majority of my life (yea, 21 years) fairly quietly. I didn't speak unless spoken to. I didn't share in conversations, in class discussions, in debates because I lacked the desire to engage people.

When I emerged from my imagination around the age of twelve, and realized that people weren't as nice as I had imagined and created them to be and that life really wasn't all colorful and happy and musical; when I discovered that, I shrank away from the world, namely people, so that I could protect myself and my sensitivities from the constant assault of reality.

Obviously, that tactic doesn't work, and reality pushed me deeper and deeper into myself, into the darkness that I perceived from everything around me.

Living in a hole, one doesn't find much space for conversation, nor does one develop the skills necessary to interact with people. Thus I lived from twelve to twenty-one in somewhat of a self-imposed exile.

Upon turning twenty-one, being forced to deal with the foreign circumstances surrounding that time of my life, I became aware that I enjoyed people for the most part. I had ideas and thoughts that I wanted to share, and if I opened my eyes, there were people around to listen, who would hear me.

Since then, I haven't stopped talking. I began telling stories a few years ago, and have found that, in spite of my verbosity, my family and friends generally enjoy hearing them.

Now, when I'm quiet, I'm choosing it; it doesn't feel forced or impressed upon me. I always have words, though I don't always want or need to share them.

I wonder, had I not emerged from my silent darkness, would I have become a librarian?

Words are my life, quite literally. I am immersed in books, papers, articles, and lectures daily. I promote research and learning to discover what those who have gone before us have to say. I advocate education as a key player in rising above--anything really: ignorance, poverty, injustice, etc. Outside of work, words are my fuel. I write them, I read them, I vocalize them, I think them (constantly), I absorb them, even when I'm not trying.

Would I have known the beauty and significance of words had I not awakened from my decade-long stupor?

I can't answer that, obviously; we can't recreate the past (nor would I want to change the course my life has taken). But I continue to find it ironic that the silent girl, the quiet one in the corner, can be found talking, listening, sharing, and engaging with multiple persons every day. And loving it.