Frisson

Being an introvert is probably underrated.  When I first heard of the term, it seemed to describe antisocial loners incapable of intimacy on most levels.  There may be levels of 'introvercy' which I learned by being both a party girl and a brooding writer, or sometimes a quiet, fly-on-the-wall photographer.  To be still is to know.  In other words, the Bartender knows everything, which an old friend brought to light in such a way, as he talked to me from behind the bar.  A habit of writing formed with a tiny diary, then swelled into obsessive poetry only a moon-in-Scorpio virgin could write shuttered away in my room for hours with only the sound of music, and begat the kindling for creative fires.  Through teen angst, shared dorms, roommates and such, the shuttering had to become more aggressively insular with sunglasses that tell anyone near to not bother me; to beautifully crafted moats of gigantic eternity scarves and hoodies that covered my markedly Other, conversation-starting hair and most importantly to a pair of cushioned, plain black Sony headphones (it's sturdy insulation from the fake-busy world of noise,  the only kind I will buy now).  My introvert-supported creativity became portable.  Stories weaved in my head and images formed with every shuffle on my iPod: Dypso, Kudu, Roxy Cottontail, English Beat, Sonic Youth - reflected the mosaic of my style in general.  When I walked the city blocks and up the craggy steps of subways dodging rats and weekend vomit, my hard steps paced with "To The Music" by Colder like a perfectly matched metronome - an apt theme looking on it now.  But it was songs that accidentally became, sort of, my theme music that further solidified the importance of music in the creative process too.  Without suffering fair weather friends or crowds, I could feel connected without depleting my energy.

More often than not I'd get goosebumps all over my arms, the sound prickling through my veins and waking up some long lost hamingja,

and the A train full of disconnected commuters would melt away making my line to the Universe much more clear.  For about a few months once, I thought I must be autistic; I got irritated when I didn't like the way my clothes felt or if a really icky person was too much for me that I had to get the fuck out of there or else I'd grow aggravated, sad or worse, bored into oblivion - but, I was not autistic.   There are some that are just empaths, but because they don't necessarily bend spoons with their mind, they may however, know what astrological sign you are even after having just met you, or resonate to auditory cues more than most, or like me also have an ability to be a psychic sponge - which means whatever you feel about me, I think I feel about you.  Luckily that last part can be tuned out.
But despite an uncanny ability to suss out people's feelings, create from hearing a song or seeing a single image, the need of physical space to separate the empathic from the very world they are inspired by to create something brilliant, well, it's just being on a higher octave than most.  As a person who doesn't remember having an experience as a child of having 'imaginary friends', I imagine this empathic experience...it's like this.