
Tapping at the Introvert’s World
Written: September 28, 2024
Academic Papers
Arms reaching. Fingers tapping. Objects pressed, prodded, rubbed between my index and thumb, pushed with the tips of my fingers as I walk past. Not really noticing the action as I move from one step to the next, always searching for that tactile experience that has created a strange habit within me.
I don’t know why I touch inanimate things. It isn’t nerves that cause me to feel random objects as I walk through stores or down streets. It isn’t a second-guessing thought where I decide against picking up some cookies or picking a random leaf. It isn’t an aborted action I take; I don’t hesitate as my hand moves from one object to another, my foot pressing down into the next step without even a stumble as I move in a strange jumble of limbs angling to the side while still in forward locomotion.
My fingers search for the next object while my eyes focus on what is ahead, barely noticing the blur of an object in my peripheral vision as I reach out without thought. Tap. Just once. An acknowledgement of the space we share together, barely a whisper of sensation between us.
Most days I’m not even aware of my wandering fingers sliding over smooth boxes as I walk through busy stores dodging the people I don’t want to accidentally knock.
I like the space that I navigate between us. The invisible bubble separating me from other weary travellers. Social distancing was a dream realized by an introverted visitor to an alien world much more energetic than I have ever been. But as I move away from the faces—some smiling, others frowning, still more with slack lips and eyes too tired to put an emotion on their faces—I wonder. Perhaps, I touch because I long for connection with this world.
Something that grounds me to the space I share with other people. That reminds me that I’m corporeal…something substantial that can tap a box of Cheerios, leaving it to shuffle on the shelf as it threatens to tumble to the ground—but I’ve moved on—so it silences its jitters and returns to being nothing more than a box of cereal.
These moments of touch send information through me. I feel the hardness of brick walls, the softness of stuffed toys saddened that I don’t bring them home, the warmth within vibrant flower petals, the coolness of crisp fall leaves as they crackle under my touch. I find my way, navigating the world where I feel like I could float away at any moment. Touch tethering me to the object, so my thoughts stay on the task at hand and don’t begin to meander away on stories constantly being crafted in my brain.
Most times, I don’t know that I’m reaching out. I don’t know why I choose to touch one thing and not the other, but my fingers itch and I rub them together in anticipation. Then the itch becomes a movement, my hand raises as though I am a marionette, and I tap…just once…because who I am can be grounded in that tap and I’m reminded that I won’t float away like some introverted alien who cannot stay.