One for the misfits.
INFP: Industrial ruins offering glimpses into a post-apocalyptic world where slowly, but inevitably, wild grasses will softly bury everything until the sun will engulf the earth and the universe will implode. Getting lost in the streets of an unfamiliar town, door creaking as you enter the messiest antiquarian bookshop imaginable and are greeted with a kind smile. Wooden merry-go-rounds with hand-carved horses, hand-cranked organ playing circus tunes. Ten-page letters never sent, messages in a bottle found a hundred years later. An abandoned train station in the middle of nowhere where maybe the ghost of the porter is forever waiting for passengers he knows will not arrive. Being careful to avoid an audible click between tracks so to not ruin that well-nigh perfect transition between songs as you record a mixtape onto cassette. Modern-day hand bookbinders and watchmakers. That one good line from that awful poem you wrote in seventh grade. Everything cringeworthy about your favorite band’s first demo tape.
INTP: Home plastered with whiteboards, fridge-freezer door painted with chalkboard paint for good measure so you can deal with your brainstorms whenever you have them. Chindōgu, the Japanese art of coming up with creative solutions to minor everyday annoyances that are ultimately useless because people would be too embarrassed to use them, such as the famous noodle splash guard. Fringe sports. Like curling. Disc golf. Or robot soccer. The USS Enterprise-shaped pizza cutter. Setting Wikipedia’s Randompage as your homepage, never getting started on anything because you keep clicking the hyperlinks in the articles. Avoiding TV Tropes for the very reason. Getting unexpectedly invested in the debate when it comes to footnotes vs. endnotes. Wanting to learn Elvish but getting stuck when you can’t decide between Quenya and Sindarin. Also maybe wanting to learn stenography. Or steganography. Or how to play the contrabass balalaika.
ISFP: Those utterly perfect movie scenes. Like when Luke Skywalker gazes into Tatooine’s evening sky, Binary Sunsets is playing, and nothing fucking happens but you feel that this, this is the very moment he realizes he might just be stuck on that dead-ass planet for the rest of his life and he’s mourning the life he’ll never have, or maybe he’s actually deciding he’s indeed made for greater things, who knows, but the sheer significance is there for everyone to forever burn onto their retinas. You know the scenes. Not being intimidated by an empty canvas but excited about the unlimited possibilities contained within. Decorating your dorm room with washi tape. Meticulously consistent editing of pictures so to not disrupt the flow of your Instagram feed. The plethora of colours light shines onto a soap bubble. Bath bombs. Sidewalk chalk. Not necessarily studying but always stocking up on cute stationery. Having strong opinions on the fonts used in movie end credits (Wes Anderson has a thing for Futura, by the way). The brand of escapism embodied in a Lana Del Rey video.