Three digits

I'm an introvert—well—arguably within arm’s length of the ceiling of an introvert. My battery gets recharged during the time I spend alone, or at least with those I feel comfortable with. So by definition, yeah, introvert. 

What you have to know about me is that I personally visualize my emotional and mental energy levels much like my phone’s battery. And right now, I’m sitting on the side of my bed, cord plugged in.

Stay-at-home, shelter-in-place, quarantine, the once-considered (but quickly mistaken) heaven for introverts, whatever you want to call it—has made me feel like I'm perpetually tethered to my proverbial phone charger. My percentage tally flashes three digits in the corner of my screen, but the powers that be are telling me that I can’t unplug. 

Sure, I don't have to worry about my battery ever running out. I don’t have the obligation to meet up with people for drinks after a work week from hell or hop in a car across the city to go out to boozy brunch when I don’t even like mimosas. I—for as long as we live in this new reality—can enjoy being free of social responsibilities, living a 100% battery life.

But what’s the point of having a battery if you never get to use it? 

I’m not a landline from the 80s; it’s 2020 and we have pocket-sized supercomputers that we use as alarm clocks. The ambiguous impermanence of not leaving the boundaries has tested the patience of even this introvert. I want to unplug.

Sometimes, life is seeing a literal “5% of battery remaining“ notification pop up on your screen. You’re a thirty-minute rideshare away from your bed. Three (or was it four?) bottles of soju into the night. And you’re being coaxed into going to a club where the DJ who produced “Sandstorm“ in 1999 is playing tonight. And you hate dancing. Like, really hate it.

But fuck it, let’s dance. 

I want to use my battery again.

Circa Fall, 2020