I dim the light on my laptop screen. I squint my eyes to ease a growing headache. The kind that murmurs and whispers as it creeps up on you. My neck is stiff and I’m tired. My pillow is hard and I’m contemplating asking my sister for a softer one, but I can’t be bothered. I reach for an ice cold glass of Coke I had poured myself just now,the wet cold greets my fingers as I raise it to my lips – and gah! The cold bubbles explode on my tongue and the burning sensation has me grimacing. Is it me or is everything intense today? I should sleep. But I’m watching David Foster Wallace’s biopic, The End of The Tour, and I’m brooding and feel too existential to let an entire night go to waste by sleeping. I love INFPs. Only they can make me feel this way. For some weeks now I’ve reassessed my INFJ-ness; while the jury is still out, I’m seeing more INFP in me than INFJ. Maybe that’s why I gravitate to the David’s of today and yesteryears. Rainer Maria Rilke, Soren Kierkegaard, Albert Camus, Oscar Wilde,Franz Kafka, Virginia Woolf. J.K. Rowling, Shakespeare, Van Gogh, Louis CK (yes, the comedian), amongst many many other notable freespirits that I just adore.