Thirty-two statements

I usually know how a situation will end long before I can explain why.

I need long stretches alone and in silence to think properly — being interrupted disorganises me.

I lose interest in a project the moment it becomes clear in my head.

I recognise the same pattern repeating in situations that, to everyone else, have nothing to do with each other.

Five years ahead look sharper to me than next week does.

Incoherence in an argument bothers me almost physically, before I have even located where it is.

I arrive at a single conclusion, not at a range of options to choose from later.

Solutions turn up when I stop looking for them — in the shower, on a walk, on waking.

When I see a badly designed process, I reorganise it in my head without anyone having asked.

I hand over conclusions instead of walking through the whole reasoning — which sometimes lands as abrupt.

Long meetings and purely ceremonial work drain me more than difficult work does.

Before starting, I want to know by which criterion we will know it worked.

I teach myself easily, because the structure of a subject shows up before the details do.

I point out the error before I think about how the person will take it.

When the data change, I change plan without feeling I lost anything on the way.

Delegating costs me: doing it myself looks faster than explaining the pattern behind it.

I hold values I do not negotiate, even when that costs me an opportunity or a relationship.

I work out what I felt hours or days after the event.

I am deeply loyal to very few people and almost indifferent to everyone else.

When someone crosses a line of mine, I cut them off quietly and do not go back.

I hate being asked how I am feeling, because I rarely have the answer ready.

I keep what I feel to myself, and that strikes me as a matter of privacy rather than coldness.

Rejection hits me harder than I admit, including to myself.

Other people’s approval barely moves my own assessment of what I did.

I notice hunger, pain or exhaustion only once they are already severe.

Having to improvise with no time to think first leaves me uncomfortable.

Under heavy stress I fall into concrete excess: food, shopping, screens or training.

I am rarely actually in the present moment — I am always a step ahead of it or behind it.

I do not register where I put things, and hunt for objects I used minutes ago.

Looking after my body is the first thing off the calendar when work tightens.

Noise, crowds and harsh light wear me down faster than the people around me.

Changes right in front of me escape me: a haircut, a piece of furniture in a new place.