What do you want I.E. what IS a problem?

 

What is, or isn't a problem, is sometimes a question of perspective.

Not always, mind you. If you have an abscessed tooth, getting it fixed is not something you can practically reframe to reduce the discomfort you are experiencing.

However, if you want to have a lot of friends, and you have tried and failed, you might think of this, as a problem. What do we do with problems?

Well usually, if we are of sound mind, we try to devise ways to solve them. In doing so we are adopting the most logically course of action, right?

Problem---solution- resolution of problem yes?

Maybe. First ask yourself, WHY is this a problem?

Okay. So following the example, why is NOT having friends a problem? Well, you could conclude that you will be lonely without friends, that your employment opportunities are reduced without friends, that you feel left out of the world without friends.

However, what about the fact that you feel a reduction of self esteem from rejection as a result of attempts to make said friends? Or that most people you meet you find to be judgemental, dimwitted, self centered slack jawed cowards that are unable to express themselves with anything approaching sincerity due to social convention flatting the landscapes of communication into a series of "acceptable topics" that reveal little to nothing about anyone or anything?

See? Perspective.

Maybe you are chasing friends because the world you live in prizes them, and you live in the world so, you emulate the people in the world you live in and pursue the things they pursue. That is what we are taught to do as autistic people right?

Craft a mask by stitching together strands of normality from the world and people around you into some LESS ominous MORE normal facsimile of a human being. But if you have to don a mask to make friends, are you really even MAKING FRIENDS? Aren't you making people believe you are someone else?

Wow, who is that guy will all those friends?? Impressive right?

Again, Perspective.

Humans AND whatever i am share some common features. One is that perhaps we are bad at understanding what we want, and also bad at separating what we want, from what we really need.

Stoics, absurdists, nihilists, Buddhists, they are all searching for meaning with different language, but the same goal. One is why worry, everyone is fucked. Another is why worry? it won't change the outcome. Another still is why worry, we are on a fucking rock in space and everything is arbitrary and made up, lawl, and one more is why worry, how will that help you to help others and return to the great rushing stream that is everything?

There are choices,

they are vast,

The track you think you are on is in your imagination and you can get off of it,

whenever you want.

Waging War

 What a profoundly useless thing i am.

Bouncing back and forth from one distraction to the next, pausing only to attend to the attention demands of my cats as they randomly jump on me, swat at my leg, or trill directly at me from whatever frozen throne i currently occupy.

I try to fight time, you see. By splaying open my veins and letting it drink my blood, just enough for me to pass out and wake up somewhere else.

Sadly, again and again i must repeat this until there is no more blood to give, and i no longer wake up.

No one beats time, you see, but you can be quite clever about how you choose to war wage. I had chosen to lose, intentionally, to rush time to consume me, to win by being no more, as soon as possible.

Time is happy to oblige, but like the eternal villain it is, it is in no rush.

It knows it will win, like it always does, and will do me no favors. It will not indulge my gamesmanship.

I cannot find value in the time, in what i could produce or what i could do with it, it is just a barrier between me and the exit. While i wish i could turn passion into progress, i am magnetized to the ground and there will be no heroes ending for one so utterly tied down to the tracks of quantum causality. You see every THING, is tied to something ELSE, and those THINGS are threads, that stretch into infinite futures. Eventually you reach a point where they all coalesce, where they are pulling you in a definite direction, at a predefined rate. At that point, you are a victim of choices past, the things you did, and that were done to you, have put you inexorably on to this path, and struggle though you might, you will not extract yourself from this. You will have your eyes pried open and held wide as you watch the things you know must happen, unfold.

And no one,

will ever

believe you.

Thunk- an ode to not knowing how to stop

 When every thought has been thunk

and every ship has been sunk

I trace the lines on my face like a treasure map

Wondering where all the gold has gone.

-I can't help thinking everything has been thought, every fertile ground tilled, every hidden spring uncovered, tapped and bled dry.

For some reason that reduces things for me, it makes the thoughts less valuable, thinking they have already been expunged from the sacred halls of disorganized minds, danced elegantly upon parchment and spit hastily upon tape and the binary of the impermeant.

I want to be myself. I want to be One of One. I want to be irreducible even as i seek to package and label the ENTIRE UNIVERSE for my own gentle amusement.

For a mere snicker, for a half sigh preceding a laugh abandoned before completion.

I want to be THE one. For you. For me. For everyone. I want them to speak my name in hushed tones or in tones of revelry.

I do not want to be worshiped, merely KNOWN.

"That's the guy," they'll say.

"That's the guy that lives. The guy that is real. The subterranean creature that discovered a rare unknowable beautiful thing and who shares it with the world with wild unrestrainable abandon. He's is what we should all aim to be. For even in failing, we are wondrous and joyful. We are graceful like the licks of fires swaying as the tips of the flame disappear and falter. We are hope, and in trying we express our hopefulness dashing ourselves on the rocks of probability. As there is no fate so cruel as to be alive and resigned to never try again. "

This hurts.

For some people this is some kind of intellectual exercise. Some self aggrandizing flailing about calculated, measured, sanded by machines to a perfect roundness, cut with lasers into perfect edges and lines, no.. not for me.

For me to say something is for me to cry, and feel the channels cut into my face by the swollen tears and rolls down the craggy surface from my sunken eyes. Age has taken my smoothness, but it has not taken the sharpness from my blade. I must draw it to make ink, and mix it with these tears to swing madly at huge blank vistas.

They are worth nothing when i start,

and they will be worth nothing when i finish.

I'm not deluded, see i know the awful truth.

It's that nothing is awful. It's that the world doesn't owe you. It's that nothing is perfect.

It's worse AND better than that.

It's nothing. The world nothings you. As it nothings me. We are creatures designed to seek external cues to guide our internal light that are the only ones capable of creating meaning for ourselves.

The world doesn't hate you. The world doesn't love you.

The world doesn't even know you were born. Or that you died.

Or that i died, i came back, and that i am dying again.

Splattering myself on the fine lines of countless notebooks was never going to draw the EYE of the world, but if it made ME feel better,

if bleeding all that blood into ink made me feel stronger, smarter, more in control, less troubled,

than the price paid was worth it,

and i will pay that price again.