apricot cryptid

he returns to me like sleep— unrelenting   and sorely missed   clothed like the sky unlit  he stands there;    my jesuit hallowed and unholy both

new media representation test. does the adult autistic character:

23:42 pm, here it comes again. after a burst of light, here it comes again. 8 hours out of the fog; and now it’s curling round me again. bitter taste. bittersweet. bringing the light to me. and now it’s gone again. here comes the fog again. 8 hours of light. clear liquid filling my insides. but the fog’s swirling up again. the fog shuts me up again. full of fire. drunk on peace. but here it comes again. manacles round my wrists, round my ankles. a collar round my neck. here it comes again. fog covering my eyes, my brain, filling my lungs. here it is again. and until i drink the fire again. the fog will return again. again. again. again.

go on, ask me why i’m tired ask me and i’ll tell you. i’ll tell you about intensity, feeling, seeing and smelling everything around me in a way you could never understand you see, your world’s in black and white and i’m processing a symphony. i’ll tell you about obsession, about dinosaurs, star trek,sharks, eyeshadow, witchcraft, dogs, manatees, b-movies. you see, these things keep me grounded and away from aggression. but let me tell you about aggression. my failed attempts at suppression when other people are too close too loud too sharp too strange they make me scream and weep but then those people call it regression. and i can tell you about camouflage. how i have a hundred fronts to put on so you don’t realise how hard i’m fighting against your barrage because god knows i wouldn’t want to make you uncomfortable. please try and remember i’m just a mirage. a mirage flickering and changing in front of your eyes to keep up. to learn, to understand people when they make no effort to understand me. that’s camouflage. that’s a masquerade. i can maintain 5 different personas at once so other people don’t think i’m strange and then they have the nerve to question what i am: autistic behind a barricade. ask me why i’m tired. go on. ask and i’ll tell. about hiding and changing; obsessing, repressing, confessing my emotions to a room full of strangers because i can’t do it face to face when i’m sober it’s distressing. distressing that while i’m repressing and professing my love for myself, for my brain, for the way i’m processing the world, that people come second guessing and expressing their doubt when all i’m trying to do is make them comfortable. but when i try so hard to make life easy for people i admire only for them to ask me why do i tire so, easily? it makes me want to scream louder, stim prouder, infodump and light up the room like a match dropped on gunpowder. it’s hard. to explain why i’m tired to someone who’s brain is fundamentally different to mine. but i like to try while i stand and untie the faces that have always been tied across mine.