In some ludicrous part of my brain I'm a sparkling wit, an extrovert with a spectacular sense of humour, equipped with perfectly-paced comedy-timing, sensitive and flexible, gracious and intelligent, a master in the art of performing the part of the charismatic racconteur.
The reality is stark in its difference. I am a bore. I'm dull and uninteresting like a piece of furniture you never wished you'd brought with you. When I eventually chime in, it's not the sound of hilarity; it's the predictable bells of tedious depth, clattering and discordant, reminding you that I don't belong, that I don't fit in. Wit sounds like sneering sarcasm, humour crashes into the air, stumbling awkardly through the silence, and charisma is sucked out into the vortex with a hiss and a squeaky pop.
Worst of all, the vortex spins around me, laughing and swirling and pushing me ever closer to an ever lonelier future. Who in the world is ever going to pick me for their team? Anyone? No-one?
No-one.
Nothing scares me more than that.
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