On the Platform

hebden-bridge-station-02

“Are you waiting for someone, miss?”

      “Yes.”

      “Would you prefer to sit in the waiting room?”

      “No thank you.”

      She had been sitting there for quite some time and the train station master was beginning to wonder if she was really waiting for anyone at all. She certainly appeared to be expecting someone, though. Her hair was immaculate despite the journey and several curls were pinned back in a simple yet fetching style. Her blouse and skirt were smoothly-pressed and not a stain in sight, as was her coat. Her pearl necklace and brooch were rather at odds with the costume-jewelry trends of modern fashion, but they became her and leant an attractive grace to her as she sat with head held high (but not to the point of being too high and thus prideful) and shoulders back. The only part of her appearance that did not seem to be well-groomed were her shoes. They must once have been as proper and pretty as the rest of her, but were now were scuffed and muddy as though she had marched through treacherous woodland trails rather than taken a train to London. But she paid no mind. Perhaps she had been through a difficult journey, but she had kept the rest of her personage neat and respectable and now she was waiting.

      And waiting.

      And waiting.

      Another hour passed and she had barely moved a muscle. The station master was beginning to be impatient for her and wondered how anyone could have the strength to sit so still for so long without so much as a word of complaint. His stomach growled and he checked his watch. It was lunchtime, but he could not leave her unattended. The rest of the passengers had vacated the platform long ago. If she would just go sit in the waiting room instead, he could go get a bite at the pub across the street. He could smell the aroma of frying fish and chips through the mixture of train steam and cheap coffee.  

      “Miss?” he asked.

      “Yes?” she turned to face him with a soft smile that almost concealed the wariness of her soul. So there was a weakness, he thought with surprise. His heart softened and he adopted a gentler tone.

      “It seems that whoever you are waiting for is late, so if you would care to follow me to-”

      “No, he isn’t,” she interrupted.

      “Pardon?”

      “He is not late. It simply appears that I am early.”

      “Early for what?”

      “An important meeting. You might say the most important meeting of my life and hopefully of his.” Her lips twitched in a humorous little grin before melting once more into her soft, vague smile.

      “Alright…” the station master’s stomach rumbled again. “Well, if you wouldn’t mind moving indoors, I need to clear the platform…”

      “You can go to lunch. I won’t do anything dreadful and I am quite safe here under this light.”

      It was as if she had read his mind. Or perhaps she had just heard the continued gurgling of his stomach. Was she hungry too? He wondered, but the lure of food pushed the thought from his mind.

      “Alright, well…I’ll be back soon.” He left with reluctance, hoping his manager would not realize his absence and her presence. He glanced back at her, but she was sitting facing forward as usual, focused on watching for whomever it was she was meeting.

      An hour later, the station master returned, but he had not been able to eat as much as he had expected. An inexplicable concern for the woman on the platform had dulled his appetite. He clutched a doggy bag in one hand.

      “Miss?”

      She turned to him once more, the soft smile seemed a little slow in coming to her mouth. Her eyes looked tired. Were those tears? Surely not. Just a trick of the light. “Yes?” There was a waver to her voice. Perhaps they were tears.

      “I thought perhaps you were hungry,” he said, offering the bag. He was baffled at himself for saying that. He had not intended to bring her food and it was only his leftovers that he held out to her.

      “Thank you,” she said. He thought he saw her eyes brighten a bit. “I was actually rather hungry.” She opened the bag and took a few dainty bites of the fish and chips, thanking him again.

      “No trouble at all,” he muttered, scooching back toward his post.

      “Would you like to sit?” she offered before he had made it far. She gestured to the empty space beside her, as hospitable as a queen in her palace though just a young woman at a train station.

      “Oh, sure,” he said with a shrug. He was not sure why he felt compelled to join her, just as he had not understood why he had given her the food, but he sat down as if automatically and mirrored her perfect posture.

      “I’m Leah,” she said, extending a hand.

      “Jake,” he said, taking it carefully. Her grip was unexpectedly firm as they shook hands and she looked him in the eye as she spoke. So there was a confidence beneath her soft appearance, he thought. Interesting.

      “So, Leah,” he said. He liked the way her name felt as he said it. It was like a breath of ocean air, fresh. As much at odds with their grimy and common surroundings as she was. “Who are you waiting for?”

      “I don’t know his name,” she said.

      “Oh,” he said, caught off guard. “What does he look like? I can at least keep an eye out for him.”

      “I don’t know that either, but I would like to think that he has kind eyes.” She glanced into his eyes and her cheeks blushed pastel as she returned to scanning the platform as another train zoomed to a halt and passengers gushed from its doors.

      “Kind eyes…that helps,” he said, thinking perhaps the woman did not have her wits completely about her.

      “I’m sorry,” she said. “I wish there was more I knew that I could tell you. I wish there was more I knew that I could tell myself.”

      “You know nothing of this man?”

      “I didn’t say that,” she said, starting and turning to face him once more. “I said I did not know his name or what he looked like, but I know about him. I know that he is strong and caring and smart and hard-working and hopefully has something of a sense of humor. And I know that eventually I will meet him. I just thought perhaps it would be here and perhaps it would be today. Maybe I was wrong about the time but I was not wrong about him. Wherever he is, he is all of those things and our journeys will reach their common end.”

      “Where did you come from?” the station master asked, ignoring the woman’s talk. He was not sure he understood it anyway. “You’re sitting at a train station, but-”

      “My shoes?” she finished. “Yes, they’re filthy and worn, but I had not the heart to change them. I felt I should be presentable with the rest of my appearance, but these shoes have been with me since the beginning of my journey here and I did not have the courage to change them and continue this path in different shoes since I did not know for certain if today would really be the end.”

      “Interesting,” he said. His mind was working to make sense of her statements, but while he did not grasp the full significance of her situation, he understood the sentiment behind it. After all, he’d been wearing the same shoes for years and they’d been second hand to begin with, but they had become part of his life of walking up and down the platform day after day. To change them would be to change that.

      Jake sat with Leah a few moments more as the crowd from the newly-arrived train thinned out. Then, saying he’d better get back to work, he returned to his post and pretended to look over some train schedules and ticket sales reports. But he could not stop himself from glancing up once in a while to check on that unusual woman who continued to sit and wait and wait and sit.

      The sun sank behind the buildings and then behind the horizon. Jake shivered, donning his coat and pulling it tight about him. Even in the summer, London nights were chilly and it had been a drizzling, gray kind of day to begin with. Across the platform, the small shoulders of Leah moved slightly. Was that a shudder? Did she have a coat? A few feet from his post, the coffee vendor began to pack up his cart. Jake set his papers aside and rushed over.

      “Two cappuccinos please, grande.”

     

Leah shivered again. She must have been wrong. What was she thinking? She mentally berated herself for being so silly. She had been waiting so long; what made her think today would be the day? And why here of all places? Stupid girl, she thought. She gathered her bag and stood to leave, sighing aloud in resignation. Trains to a new place had brought her no more luck than walking throughout the old. Besides, she thought with a glimmer of hope, she would be easier to find if she stayed put rather than speeding across the country.  But would she be found? Probably not, she realized with a sorrow beyond even a sigh. She was being absolutely ridiculous. Back to her house, back to her job, back to waiting in the old place. That was the sensible thing to do, after all.

      Her straight shoulders slumped for the first time. A curl fell free of its pins, limp in the drizzle that mirrored her mood. Sensible had grown so dull, so “stale and unprofitable” as she had heard said once in a play, but what else was there to do? She turned to go inside where it was warmer and where she could buy a ticket to return to her sensible life of waiting.

      “Miss?” It was Jake, that nice young stationmaster with the hair that needed a trim, the shirt that could use a running over with an iron, and the…kind eyes. She blinked.  He held out a steaming coffee cup and smiled gently. She shyly accepted the cup and murmured her thanks, looking down at the ground and their shoes. She noticed then that his were even muddier and more worn than hers and felt a strange urge to laugh, but instead she shivered.

      “Oh, here!” Jake spilled some of his cappuccino as he wiggled free of his jacket and clumsily tried to wrap it around her shoulders. He laughed, embarrassed and shrugged helplessly.

      “Thank you,” she said, laughing as the coat and heat of the coffee cup took away the sting of the cold.

      “Would you like to go inside? To the waiting room? I can take you there,” Jake said. He looked at her with concern in his eyes.

      “I would like to go inside, thank you,” replied Leah. “But I do not need the waiting room anymore.”

The Gardener

Their forks clicked in unison against the empty plates as they set them down, finished. The utensils were not the only things that had clicked. The meal had been delicious, the girl lovely, the man courteous, the conversation interesting and free of the awkward pauses generally ended by dull commentaries on the weather or the quality of the wine. Altogether, it had been a perfectly smooth first date. Too smooth, the young woman was thinking. Surely something uncomfortable had to occur. It was a first date, after all. That thought alone- that the evening had been unnaturally comfortable- made the girl uncomfortable. She toyed with her fork as the man continued to talk about his work.

“The kids are great- I love working with them, but I hope one day to be a professor at the collegiate level, more research than teaching, you know?”

She nodded, tuning back into the conversation. What was his job again? Oh, right. According to the friend (well, more of an acquaintance) who had introduced them, he was a history teacher at the local high school. She was beginning to shake the feeling of discomfit caused by the very lack of discomfort when the man asked her a question that caused her to miss this imaginary anxiety.

“So,” he said, looking at her over his glasses, which seemed oddly hipster for an adult. But then, they had not been adults for long. “What did you say you do?”

She hadn’t. In fact, she had purposely been avoiding talk of her career and had hoped that by listening to the man- Andrew the history teacher- talk of his work, she would not be asked to describe hers.

“Sorry, what?” she blinked up at him, pretending not to have heard over the din of fellow diners. This would have been easier had there been any fellow diners, but in the odd perfection of their evening, they had dragged their meal out beyond all except a few men lingering at the bar.

“Where do you work? What do you do?”

“Oh,” she said. “I’m…a gardener…of sorts.”

“A gardener of sorts?” his eyes twinkled in amusement behind his spectacles.

“Yes.”

“Okay, so tell me more! What sort of plants do you grow? Who are your clients?”

She wished he would stop, but the genuine tone to his voice coaxed her into giving somewhat of an answer. It was the best she could come up with, anyway.

“I don’t much grow plants so much as I do tend them and, after a bit, dispose of them.”

“You’re that bad of a gardener that you dispose of plants instead of growing them?” Her eyes widened, but he chuckled and winked. “I’m kidding. I’m sure you’re wonderful.”

She blushed and her skin was so pale, she knew he could see it, but she was pleased. As much as she was reluctant to talk about it, she did think her job wonderful and she knew she was good at it.

“Thanks,” she chuckled in reply, relaxing a bit. “I meant that I dispose of the plants left by others- bouquets mostly, and sometimes miniature Christmas trees or potted shrubs. The ones I tend are thriving, I assure you.”

“People leave plants?”

“Yes,” she replied, then hastened to add, “But I do other work too- trimming hedges and trees and such. Lots of outdoor work, but I enjoy the fresh air. It makes me feel more alive.”

“Outdoors? You’re not exactly tan…” another wink so she knew he meant no offense.

“Well I mostly work at night. People don’t like the sight and sounds of grounds keeping work when they visit.”
“Fair enough. Sounds like your clients are high maintenance though- making you clean up after them and work at night. Do you at least like the people you work with?”

“Oh yes!” she clasped her hands together and instantly regretted her excited reply. Would he understand? She wondered. Best not to tell too much. She carefully arranged her hands in her lap, attempting to veil her enthusiasm.

“Well, tell me about them.”

“Oh…um…they’re pretty quiet. I don’t actually know very much about them aside from their names and dates-”

“Dates?”

“I mean birthdays and- er- ages.”

“Got it.”

“Anyway, they’re quiet, but I like to imagine things about them. I like to guess at their personalities, their backgrounds, who they loved and where they were born. It fascinates me to read their names and try to fill in the blanks with possible life stories. I mean, who knows what amazing lives these people had, what adventures and romances and tragedies. I have so many questions about them that I’ll probably never know the answers to, so I make them up.”

“Fascinating.”

“It really is.” Did she say too much? She feared she did.

“Why don’t you just ask them? Then you could have the answers.”

“I suppose I could, but I doubt it would do much good,” she said, her eyes were twinkling too now.

“Alright then…why not?”

“No reason…” she fiddled with her fork again. He watched her until she could feel her cheeks burning. Maybe she should just tell…it was nothing to be ashamed of. It was just that all of the men before him had found it a little, well, unsavory that an educated, pretty, young woman would choose her line of work and enjoy it more than the countless dull desk jobs she had been offered. Well, she could survive another man not calling back. What she could not survive was another date of evading questions and vague answers. Her work kept her occupied in the evenings anyway.

“Fine,” she sighed. “I can’t ask them because…they’re dead.”

“Pardon?”

“I’m the sole groundskeeper of a graveyard. Two, actually. Olive Grove and St. George’s.”

She let her fork click down at the end of her sentence and refused to look up at him. She’d seen the mixture of surprise and distaste on enough faces and had no interest in seeing it replayed in the brown eyes behind their glasses.

“Well then,” he said after an eternal moment. “Who is your favorite person at work? Any particularly fascinating epitaphs? What’s the oldest date on any tombstone?”

She sneaked a peek up at this odd Andrew the aspiring history professor. As his eyes met hers, she saw that the spark of genuine interest had not died. She savored this moment, for all traces of discomfort had vanished, buried in the past. As he asked and she freely answered, neither had felt more alive.

Graveyard Library

Upon finishing up my finals and juries today, I found my mind in a muddle, so I did the natural thing: I went exploring. In doing such, I happened upon a cemetery and spent a great deal of time wandering and wondering. To any outside observer, I was just another a college girl in an ugly Christmas sweater creeping around for no apparent reason, but really, I was researching. After all, one can learn- or at least imagine- so many things in graveyards, most of which are, surprisingly, more poignant than frightening. And, as many writers would agree, inspiration is always to be found in such places. For example…

 

Graveyard Library

I went walking through a library.

Well, a graveyard actually.

But both are full of tales,

And wandering down the aisles- or trails-

I read the spines of leather-bound tomes,

Or, rather, faded tombstones.

Between the lines (or dates)

I am left to guess the fates

Of the characters once living.

 

Over here on my left,

Paule Walde lays at rest.

But why so apart from his wife?

Marie Walde is right there

Though it seems quite unfair.

Where their stories separate in life?

.

Susie Harlem “mother”

And beside her another,

With a stone more elaborate than she.

Was this other loved better

Or simply loved richer?

How small Susie’s script seems to be.

.

And Shirley Ann Southern

Whose time came too sudden,

Plucked like the daisies that bloom here.

She stayed only a day,

In 1940 May.

How sad yet sweet this short page dear.

.

Shirley’s would-be playmate

Naps a few yards away.

Beneath a lone fragile sapling.

Its leaves laugh in the wind

But cannot grief amend.

A short poem, barely a scribbling.

.

Then James of Scotland and

Janine of Switzerland-

Only a marriage date printed.

Why no mention of death?

Do they yet use their breath,

To write a love uncompleted?

.

Then there’s a poor sister

And as she’s the elder,

Waits for her sibling patiently.

But the girl above ground

Tired of hand-me-downs,

Will finish her sequel separately.

.

Miss Charlotte was likely

The town’s brightest beauty.

For without fail as the years pass,

Bonny blue wildflowers

Same as those eyes of hers,

Peak up from the parchment of grass.

.

Strange indeed it might seem

Of all places to dream,

Libraries and graveyards are best.

But both only will grow

As time in its course flows.

And beneath covers and earth

Lies the past.

 

Ambidextrous

Ambidextrous

            “I,” he wrote in large, blocked script with a pen clenched between the stiff fingers of his left hand. A more definite pronoun had never before graced a blank page.

Except for every other page in the diary.

And every other diary of every other shelf in the small room, made even smaller by the rows of books- diaries, journals, notebooks- that lined its walls.

“I.” He traced the letter so carefully that it was as if he’d never before held a pen. The bold letter stared back up at him, an insolent black spot marring the snowy whiteness of the page, which crinkled in his grasp. His right hand quivered like an autumn leaf as he carried the Cyclops paper with its single monstrous eye to the far shelf. His left hand, still clinging to the pen, was steady.

The man ran an index finger, pale and icy cold, across the spines of the books, finally selecting one and tapping it several times before fumbling to remove it and set it on the desk. He took a rattling breath and drew back its covers, heart pounding in anticipation of what secrets might be sleeping between them. He thumbed through its pages, letting more and more slide past with each second, quicker and quicker until only one remained unturned. Yet not a single one remained unread. As the words had flickered across his vision, they had illuminated the dark recesses of his mind and a life had flashed before his eyes: his life.

But it was so unfamiliar! The people, the places, the great love for that one person and that one place that outshone all others were there before him in the words of the diary… all was so strange, but while human eyes are deceiving, written “I”s tell no lies and there, on every page of that simple brown book, were enough “I”s to have overwhelmed Argus himself. And they were all his. He remembered none until reading them, but they were unmistakably identical to the unblinking “I” on the crinkled page.

He slammed the book shut with a sharp snap, grunting as he shoved it back into its spot. He clenched his fists against his forehead, further crumpling the lonely letter in his hand.

“It can’t be. No. One letter cannot prove anything…” he muttered frantically. “I’ll just choose another…or several… Yes, a whole word this time!” His voice was harsh, as if from disuse, and echoed like scratching on a rough blackboard.

He smoothed the paper against the desk once more and held it as his ever-steady left hand wrote: “Y-O-U.”

“You,” he whispered.

Perhaps he was disappointed in himself for not thinking of a more profound term, for he sighed heavily as he limped across the room. There, he plucked three books from their shelf, all alike in their bright bindings and compact shape. All three nestled snugly together in the palm of his hand and he flipped through them as swiftly as he had the first book. Their pages fluttered, blowing gently up at him and ruffling the damp grey locks that hung over his forehead.

This zephyr failed to blow away the clouds in the man’s eyes, however, and tears threatened to fall as a heartbreakingly beautiful tale of lost innocence unveiled itself in his mind. As the final page exposed itself, he paused and looked at it with an anguished expression across his lined face.

“You,” accused the journal sorrowfully.

“You,” mocked the paper clutched in his shaking hand.

Again, the writing was unmistakably identical. The storm in the man’s eyes broke and a choked cry escaped his throat.

“My Word! My life…” he crammed the books blindly onto the shelf and swiped at his eyes. They fell to the floor and lay with their covers splayed, baby birds fallen from their nest.

“My Word!” he sobbed again. “What have I done? But I remember nothing, none of it. It’s all lies- it must be. Just one new letter…one odd word to set me free- one alone to prove truth or lie!”

He raked his damp hair from his face with a new aggression and shoved the wilted page back onto the table, muttering determinedly as he wrote the word he most desired.

“T-R-U-T-H.”

He threw down the pen, took up the page in his unwavering left hand, and began to run about the room, bumping into shelf corners and smacking into walls, as heedless to his own pain as the fly that beats itself to death against its own reflection. He pulled five volumes from the five corners of the room and tucked them under his arm as he stumbled back to the desk where he threw them down violently. He continued to allow the single paper, now scarred thrice, to soak in the sweat of his palm. Still standing, he opened the first journal and fanned its pages, which turned eagerly at his touch.

The words spoke- no, sang- of simpler times, of childish games, silly flirtations, merry romps; teatimes, fairy tales, twinkling stars, camping trips. The letter “T” waved at him from its lines like an old friend and seemed almost to laugh at his distress. It smiled when matched to the “T” of “TRUTH” on the separate page.

The second diary was calm, solemn, fervent. Its revelations restored the clouds to the man’s eyes, which the first book, in its unrestrained mirth, had temporarily banished. This pious book too matched the paper, now bleeding ink mingled with sweat beneath the heat of his hand. Its righteousness and redemption bore the same “R” as “TRUTH.”

The “U” was present also, in the third book. This one was neither religious nor childish, but simply an eclectic collection of scribblings. And yet, umbrella, undergarment, ugly, underneath, up, and countless other bits of nonsense bore the recognizable vowel written by the man’s own pen.

The fourth volume was a ragged notebook covered with letters so cramped together that it was difficult to decipher them, but their form was obvious. Every character, although miniature, matched those of the now-tearing page.

The “H” and its host book struck more fear into the heart of the desperate reader than any amount of teatimes or umbrellas or even religions could. These “H”s were as uniform as soldiers leading funeral processions of letters. They were the leaders of hopes and heartaches, heavens and hells. They and the “H” of “TRUTH” were united in form and function, all simultaneously condemning their reader- and their Writer- to the realization of the truth, the realization of his life.

The last of the journals thumped closed, the sudden noise resounding like the chop of an ax in the tense silence of the room. A few moments passed and the stillness folded once more around the man, broken only by his uneven breathing.

“All of it…” he gasped finally, sucking at the air in desperation. “All of it true…every word my own, my own story…my life.” He inhaled sharply, struggling against the strangle-hold of his own despair. “Yet I recognize not a sentence, not a word. Am I so forgetful as to not remember myself apart from these books?”

Silence laughed at his question. Beside him, a book slide sideways on its shelf with a muffled thud.

“Yet,” he repeated, “it is all true; every jot, every tittle. All truth…all me.”

He grasped at his chest, releasing the abused paper to lie with its abandoned sisters. Tearing at the collar of his shirt, he cried out, but for once, it seemed, he had no words. He exhaled air and saliva through a clenched jaw and pressed his palms into the face of the desk until the knuckles of his fingers turned whiter than the spaces in his diaries. Harder and harder he pressed until his strength failed and he surrendered, collapsing into the chair and letting his head fall into his arms.

Had a clock been present, several hours would have ticked by as the man lay motionless at the desk, but the walls held only books upon books, entries upon entries. No windows offered consoling sunshine or even the sympathetic glow of the moon. The man was completely and utterly forsaken to ponder the past and future that belonged to him alone but did not seem to belong to him at all.

As outside the door-less, airless prison, the shadows lengthened and twilight settled, the man’s broken breathing became a shallow snore and his body relaxed, no longer racked by unutterable sobs. His hands were no longer veined with stress, but one, the right, continued to twitch. As the man snored calmly, the agitated right hand crept forward, apparently of its own accord, and dragged an empty notebook from the shelf above the desk. It flipped it open with a scarcely-audible click and, tiptoeing around it, plucked up the pen and began to dance across its pages. After a few practice twirls to get the ink flowing, the hand paused as if thinking, and began to write, the letters that bubbled freely from its pen the same as those of the man’s conscious left hand, but the words they formed told tales never before read or lived.

Just before dawn broke on the world outside of the man’s library cell, the right hand jabbed the final page of the notebook with a period, replaced the pen to its cup, and closed the book. It then crawled back across the desk, folded itself gently over the slumbering dominant hand, and grew still, no longer twitching. The only evidence of its nighttime activity was a small ink stain on its pinky finger.

Another Open Letter from an INTJ

Hello again!

A while ago I posted “a Rare Open Letter from an INTJ” and feel inclined to continue this one-sided correspondence with another.

A word that is not commonly associated with the INTJ personality combination is “emotional.” Another such word might be “caring” or “friendly.” Well, to quote a wise television character: FALSE.

INTJs are not unfeeling; rather, we simply like to keep our deepest feelings to ourselves. Jane Austen, in Emma, “If I loved…less, I might be able to talk about it more.” This principle is true of most emotions for the INTJ: tumblr_lrsc4pwqGA1qcbmnfo1_500the greater the emotion, the more hesitant to reveal it. As introverts and thinkers, we tend to dwell upon feelings and only share when we can explain them and are truly comfortable. And, in the midst of dwelling on these feelings, if we do not find any logic to explain them, we will try to either force them to conform to what we see as logical or attempt to forget them. This usually does not work very well as, try as we might, we cannot logic away everything. The need to eat, for instance. Or the basic human need for communication. (Hence this blog…)

INTJs are also not uncaring. At first, people of this type- myself included- 19ac3dfb771ebcd4e8dbee5c2cc526dbmay come across as reserved or aloof, not necessarily seeming the warm and fuzzy type. But we do care just as deeply as we feel. To quote Jane Austen again, “There is nothing in the world I would not do for those who are really my friends. I have no notion of loving people by halves; it is not my nature.” INTJs might not be as overtly caring as other personalities (ENFPs, for example), but when they find people that genuinely matter to them, they will put the same intense care into their friendships or relationships that they do their other pursuits.

This leads me to another point: how INTJs show that they care. Like I said, the INTJ may not express caring in an obvious way, such as with a spontaneous hug or card, but428965_3251061123447_508615621_n that does not mean he or she is not trying. From my own experience as an INTJ, I often show that I care through actions and time. You see, time is valuable to the INTJ, so if an INTJ expresses a wish to spend time with you, then you can be assured that he or she appreciates your company and is trying to care for you by setting aside that time. As analyzers, INTJs might also show caring through problem solving, an area in which they particularly excel.

intj-helping

If an INTJ offers advice or tries to help, even if it seems uncalled for or pushy, he or she is actually just trying to show that he/she cares enough to want to improve things for you.

So INTJs do feel emotion and do care, but express these in different ways. What does this mean? Well, obviously we cannot just shout “I’m an INTJ!!!” and refuse to share our feelings with the world or anything. That’s silly. INTJs, in order to be well-rounded, will need to show caring in other ways, as well as to share their emotions from time to time. What we need is people who honestly want to listen to us and make us feel safe in sharing the various emotions and ideas that are bouncing around in our heads. And regarding caring…INTJs will have to learn to care in other ways. I have learned that others often prefer a comforting hug to a strongly-worded letter confronting their issue and have had to adjust accordingly. But others should be aware of the ways in which INTJs care and know that, when an INTJ makes time for them or tries to help, he or she truly values their friendship.

That’s all. Carry on with your lives. Maybe force an INTJ into a hug or something to show that you appreciate them, weird little personalities that they are. 😉

Sincerely,

Me