flailing under weighted blankets with the world’s sniggering vitriol dampening my resolve which never was up to it anyway like everything else or everyone I’ve known, few as they may be, and diminished by time and the noise of my tentacled senses holding me under, I can’t breathe. 

Release me. 

A type of personal Stimming

I rock back and forth because it calms me.

I picked my eyebrows as a kid, staring off into space.

I become a writer and find the literary web entangles me more than occasionally – how do I solve the stresses which come with idealessness?

Complete obliteration of grammatical meaning.

My own kind of literary stimming as an aspie who finds no reprieve in the mainstream advice for “writers block”…

No, it isn’t a block of any kind to me; ideas never stop flowing; but I over think, over analyse, trying to formulating the ineloquent bits of storytelling – and seeing as I am not a machine; I can only produce so much logical solutions before I burn out with anxiety and frustration and then the torrent of self-hate-speech flows in.

‘You lazy little…!’ “Just write”!

How liberating the non-sense writing, the obscuring of words and the weight they carry for a writer. The value in each letter.

Crow-bar Dough under Spongebob rhombus tights!

The tickle of a surprise in the nature of a stumbled upon sentence very oopsy-daisy like but with toddler giggles always heart cheering.

Sporadic Blogger Inside Out. Au revoir!