Since coming on this forum, I've wanted to present a description of myself so that I can get input on my type, but I'm way too self-conscious to do that.
Though this is also somewhat painful, I thought it would be interesting to see if you guys could type me based on a short sample of my creative writing.
Since I'm pretty much sure of my type already, I'm thinking this will just reaffirm it for me!
She imagines melancholy people in a rainstorm. They are feeling very uneasy and they imagine their relief in a thousand different ways. Even a dozen ways, perhaps. They make themselves a cup of tea and take deep soothing breaths, bundling themselves in their comforters and throws. They feel better in this place, warm inside, listening to the rain that has become a soft music to them. Now everything is lulling them back and things begin to feel secure once again. The tinge of melancholy might remain, but it is discrete. She imagines these people in their warm-lit homes staring, relaxed, out into blackness, where the rain falls in torrents and the wind howls. These people in her mind in their candle lit bubbles who drive away sadness with cups of tea, though she has imagined them, she cannot begin to comprehend their talent, the efficiency of their minds.
She imagines herself in the rain storm and though she is sheltered, the room is very grey and reflective of her mood. She doesn’t want any tea or any blankets or anything of the sort. Maybe she wants them, but it won’t occur to her. She is very vague in this room; she has melted into the walls. Sometimes in her imagination her face will flash in the room. It is her face flashing, though it is has no distinguishing features. It is just a random face. It floats and then disintegrates. There in the melancholy chamber an identity eludes her.
In her mind she is always thirsty and there is always water, a glass perhaps, that she can’t lift to her lips and might not even see. She is a loathsome creature that, when given options, will sit there blankly, for any move made would be an announcement of herself, an act of being. The failure to choose had consequences as well, but she wouldn’t know this, as great as her ignorance was. She is not actively resisting; she is simply incapable.
When she saw his familiar face for the very first time, she emerged from her imaginings, parched. He stood before her, his face a teleprompter, and his words whispered cues from behind the curtains. When she opened her mouth to speak, a faint hiss escaped her throat and became an expression, a static noise that represented her in their interaction. And while the thought of water might have existed somewhere in her mind, she had no instinct to follow such thoughts, those that would create solutions for her.
Perhaps it was her hope that with this static hiss he would create the choicest words he could hear from a woman. If perhaps her existence was completely subject to his interpretation, he would construct the woman he desired. If her face was a blank canvas, he would paint the inviting eyes and the compelling smile that he sought. If he had everything his way, as she believed an artist did, he would create her identity for her and she would be relieved of that burden. When she first saw him, she saw in him this capability and a familiarity with herself. That is where the story began, the moment of recognition.