You'd never know it, but I'm shy. I laugh loud, I greet strangers in passing, smile, talk (sometimes incessantly, sorry about that) and frequent public places. Mainly, though, I like to be alone or with my family. It takes effort to leave the house.
It's worth it.
Everyone who travels talks about how wonderful it is. I agree, but it's not for everyone. I see people every day, arguing with their spouses, snarling at their children, complaining about the service at restaurants or the low quality of items they're trying to buy. We all have those days, sure, but for some people that's every day, all day. I don't think travel will be an enlightening, mind-expanding experience for them. It would be a long, arduous journey of inconveniences and impositions, endured purely for bragging rights and photo ops or because they were forced by unsympathetic relatives.
I love those people. Seriously. How boring would it be if everyone was bubbly and happy and liked everything and everyone all the time? Besides, there ought to be balance in things. And since I like almost everything and everyone (within reason) there have to be people who don't like anything or anyone, even themselves, to offset my cloying nature. Also, I need challenges, conflict, and strife, even though I'd really rather drink wine and play BeJeweled all day. I need people and things to bother me, or I'd never have anything to write about.
BTW, no, I won't write about political issues or movements or causes–not on purpose, anyway. I'll leave that to smarter people than myself. I prefer to limit myself to less lofty subjects. Love and hate. Desire and revulsion. Sweetness and bitterness, and the chocolate that binds them. Stupidity and wisdom.
I hope I don't embarrass myself too badly. If people laugh at me, I'll keep smiling, keep writing, keep living and loving. Not because I don't care. It's just part of being alive. I live as fully as I can, despite the fact that I'm shy.