If a tree falls in the forest, and no one hears it – does it make a sound?
Were that tree autistic and the forest “normal” — no, no one would bother hearing it.
And it would make no sound.
People look at “getting the last word” as a show of force, of getting one’s point across with finality.
Save those of us with selective mutism or otherwise blessed with blissful silence, we’re often cursed with being the last ones speaking, to empty rooms, ears tuned out, no one left yet listening.
Conversations come and go; we often cannot follow and latch on to nothing but vapor.
And no one would think to say, “Hey, we’ve moved on from that.”
We bring up memories, things of note, expecting some reflecting — but no, that sheen has passed, and we don’t see it.
I’ve continued pulling thread from worn spools of talk, only to find myself stranded.
The yarns are spent, and there’s only one time when we figure it out.
When it’s far too awkward and late.
The Life Autistic is like talking on different trains, misjudging schedules, miscalculating interests, missing everything.
Measuring so carefully every word and thought, excited to elaborate.
And like sculptures doomed to dust, they’re dashed quickly on sleek tiles keen to move on.
I have destroyed and had dashed so many thoughts, threads of conversation and idea, that it is becoming painful to walk on the fragments of thought and talk.
I create because I think it matters, and yet it too soon becomes dust and ether.
Hopefully it shines. Somewhere. Whether in a shard someone wants to keep or at least in dust underfoot.
The Life Autistic 