Anxious to talk to you

The nerves fire off warning shots, listen. Yes?
Oh, well, in mine eyes the camera jitters quite violently, blurring the spectacle of life.

If you miss much I miss it all, or most, not to curse this momentary lull with interjections of mine suffering but; no one’s listening.

Samuel Beckett says the essence is beneath and behind you, I, the unfortunate inessential, cannot see his meaning. Perhaps..?
Oh, well, all is a-float on strings of space and time, drifting far and wide.

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Missing Shadows. Nostalgia bites.

Rice is really nice and light on the stomach

I should probably eat more but I don’t wanna

I think there’s a case to be made for neo-Hardboiled modernism in this generation

With the twitter and sparse attention spans

The easier ones content is to consume the more one will consume it (most likely)

I dated someone with Bipolar once

I think about that person often and how things might’ve been different if I knew more about Bipolar then as I do now

But I myself was ignorant of my aspergers and A.D.D

I miss that person; I wish we went for friendship as opposed to relationship

They were admitted into a mental institution several times, but unlike a previous lover who seemed to always be slipping away or we never quite gelled together (another relationship which would have been better left in the friend-zone), with this one I always felt like I could be there for them no matter what

There’s something about being with a person who has their own demons. Real mental shadows that move things around. A unique bond is formed. Aliens amongst their own.

But I was not the grown up I am today and my default reaction to almost anything back then was to jump ship whenever I felt my presence was detrimental to the person I was around (whether perceived or accurate)

Rather than solve.

The funny thing is; once I knew I was an aspie; I embraced that mindset of solution orientation

But sometimes, starting things intimately and trying to revert back to more friendly parameters is impossible, I know it is with me.

So I remember a shadow of that person. Encapsuled in time, in my memory, reimagined in my fiction and art.

In my heart.

You Digress, I Digress, We All Destress

My room is a sidewalk away from a road, a block away from a pub(slash)bar, right next to a massive tree and (at night) a neighbour to tireless crickets.

With the window open, I can hear the foot steps of every pedestrian strolling to and from their respective night shift jobs (or perhaps a foray with a lover – maybe a spy on a mission or a criminal from a mission).

It gets terribly hot in the summer but I am left with a choice between no sleep or drenching my bed in sweat (the latter wins all the time) although it must be said the older I get the less I do anything “profusely”.

My hearing can be impeccable, particularly when the drone of daylight and day time hubbub subsides and the still of the night rises like a ghostly fog – an ethereal entity which (peculiarly) amplifies all the little noises and agitates all the discreet senses:

I clean my feet (to make them soft) so I can rub them together whilst in bed (such a lovely friction which takes me back to my childhood when I shared a bed with gran’ma and I would rub my feet against hers during the winter to warm mine (which always felt like the feet of a corpse) even to this day my feet are stubbornly cold in the winter)

Funny how the smallest things give rise to often buried memories…

But I digress.

Hold aloft the crown of thyn jovial Constipations

A Can of bathtub infusions
Salts the essence of my tears,
How they scrub me deeply, firstly
and undo me, only, in the second act of this unholy, theory,
Sullen, drowsy,

Take pity with a drink for a knock on my liver
sprouts a bloom in my urethra

A Tongue lashing from my lover,
in the mirror
Who stares when I close my eyes, only…
Only…
I am hungry for my one and only.
My Last breath. My empty eternity.

If you do not mind me, death sang, then I am lonely
But I do mind you, I began, ’tis living I abhor mostly

Clarity of Expression: Non-Fiction exercise deux

You Are My Center, when I spin away…
Love songs, Romance in movies and books, they do not speak to me nor do I find any remnants of myself within their concepts and depictions.

Hugs and Kisses, The arguments and make-ups, a carnival of emotions both ironic and cryptic without ever coming to any kind of conclusion unless for some inexplicable reason you find that rare old couple; they fit like a glove, they live having developing their own tailored “coping mechanisms”
For everybody else I see a merry-go-round of hypocrisy and force-fed hope
Marriages and weddings with the same script but ever changing characters.

‘Blame it on my Aspergers,’ I think to myself.

And it’s alright.
That I don’t get it, that I do not care for the Wheel of Romance.

But it would be great if somebody could explain what it’s all about!

But The Truth is Something Altogether Different

She dreams in clips.
A music video; she’s walking beside a stranger she loves terribly, they’re in an amusement park and laughing, on a rollercoaster and gasping.
Reaching up to the swirling sludge-puppy sky.

The sharp jabbing beeps of her alarm shock her into the deep end of her room.

Left with nothing but a headache and time running out before her boss calls to swoon into her ear his concerns and constructive bullshit, she quickly and inadequately washes up, bites into a piece of last nights pie and has her instant coffee on the go, almost spilling the black liquid down the stairs.

The sun’s too bright, the streets too loud, the walk way too hard, her clothes too close, what she wouldn’t do for a nap right now.

The blur of faces at work remind her of that rollercoaster, that stranger with a red tongue, and the foreign smile on her own face.

She pokes and prods her cheeks – hollow tombs for the flies.

Maybe it all becomes a type of drug, the lies and the ridicule of the world, and you take it all in. It does its job and you piss it out, shit it out.

The Virus of life.

Be Happy.

Aspergers and Symbolism (sidetracked by A.D.D)

Symbols are images, and images are visible, tangible (not always but mostly) objects/things.

I write the way I do, read the types of books I read, enjoy the kinds of movies I enjoy and notice physical features others might not BECAUSE of my Aspergers.

Now, what does that say about WHO I am? If within my mother’s womb I was set up for the kind of person I am now?

Personally I have no problem having such sensitive eyes (ooooh) and a vivid imagination, but the question of identity strikes me most profoundly just bellow my gut.

Who am I? Am I who I am? Or is who I am what I really am?

I do no want kids (is it I or is that my internal network of reasoning and logic-crunching?)

I do not want a “partner”, relationships do not interest me (despite my having fantasies of being with the “right” kind of person who matches me like a glove) … I am aware such fancies exist in the realm of television, so with my excessive reasoning I forego the wish to be with anyone. It is entirely logic based (and I like that)

Is THAT me? Or is that little infant suspended upside down in a bag of urine (just facts) already made?

Alas whatever the answer, it makes no difference, not to me at least.

With all of that said, this logic brain values friendships (despite having naught) over anything else because (theoretically speaking) they are choices we make to pick people who (should) be in our lives “till death do us part”, in the most true sense of the sentiment. No ring B.S, no ceremony, just mates (sings “I’ll be there with you”) ’till the end.

Asperganoid OUT.

(Wait what was I saying about symbolism?) Argh!