first week of college from an autistic


“the peopled world was a constant clash.” is a quote that repeats on a mix tape in my mind. how is it that the entire universe, the way the trees sway with the wind, the way the fox chases the rabbit, how street lights brighten under dark skies–it all makes an overwhelming amount of sense. the world itself turns and spins on an axis on a constant. and what’s more beautiful than that? The constant, never-ending inner workings of this planet. I am a part of something so huge, so meaningful, so incredible. But then, the peopled world connects interchangeably with the world in its entirety. That world, that people filled, emotional crash course–that world, is an absolute nightmare. a panic attack under the skin. a itch of misunderstanding I can’t quite stop scratching. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to make that world stop for a split second? for a chance of understanding? a sweet, sweet comprehension of someone else? That’s a dream of the world I want to be apart of. Don’t get me mistaken; I adore this planet I am so happily and hopelessly apart of. But sometimes, if not always, I wish the peopled world tried a little bit harder to understand me– As I am constantly trying to understand them. if someone took a step towards my “odd”, my “constantly moving axis” my “confusion” and either ask a question or give me an answer to one I’ve been aching, moving fingers, to ask. a list of questions twist and turn under my fingertips waiting to have the chance to be brought into the air. “How?’ “Why is it so increasing confusing and beautiful and exciting that the world can connect two humans together and weave their minds into a twisted connection?” and “how, oh how, can I be a part of that?”
Surely, it must be possible as the rest of the world can make this experiments become a truth. Is it that my mind is missing a part all the others seemed to be gifted so easily with? or are they all missing the extra piece I was blessed with? to see the world in such a detailed, beautiful, constantly moving, spinning, colored, window? Are they the ones that are lacking? but what is it that I have that they wish to see? Seemingly, nothing. but I feel like I have caskets and bowls and ships filled of things to share with that world.
the peopled world makes my chest spin and twist. it makes movements in the most hidden, fearful part of me. the part that so desperately wants to relate but is just stuck grasping for an already withered string.
How can I reconnect it? Tie the seams and glue the cords? so I can experience just a slight second of being within that world? If I could explain to someone within that realm what it was like, what it was quite like to be me, I would say its like being trapped in a glass wall that nobody else can see except you. You can’t seem to get out or break the glass or find a way to speak through it. People don’t know you’re in it, but somehow–they sense it. They sense the barrier and never try to push through it either. That’s the thing about this glass. it requires a force from both sides to create the cracks in it. But the only banging of the hammer goes from me.

If only someone bought a tool kit and banged back. For so deeply do I ache for the cracks to start and for the rivers and light beams of conversation make their way into my world. For I have so much to say, but nobody lends an ear to listen. So I sing and yell and proclaim my ideas into the empty world of the universe. The constant spinning hears my calls. They know the sound of my voice, of my passion, of my love.

And in that sense, at least someone is listening. Someone understands. Although that person cant tell me that, so they show it. In the falling of raindrops on my windowsill. In the light that shines too heavily on my eyes. In the tap, tap, tapping of fingers that releases a sound. Its all the universe talking to me.

But when you’re falling, the universe cant pick you back up. It can only sit and observe. I wish so deeply, someone could reach out. Into the barriers. Into the difference. Into the glass. Into the light. Into the tapping. The loneliness.

The possibilities of those worlds combining would be the most beautiful conversation., the loveliest sound of the spinning. I think im the only one who hears that spinning. I know its there. And I feel it in the soles of my shoes as I walk. In the miscalculations of space. In the tripping over nothing, but the spinning. The spinning makes my headache and my throat clench, the spinning. Oh man, the spinning. It never stops, it never takes a second to breathe again and keep moving. It just does. And that constant is such an exhausting thing to hear. To feel. To breath in and out in lungs that cannot handle their own calculations.

But now it sounds as if I am blaming my own lungs, my own body, my own mind. They are not the culprits here. My system is trying its hardest to power forward and tread faster. It’s the peopled world that needs to fix its messy algirirhyhtm. To clean up the cracks. To slow it’s spinning.


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