Vivid Internal World

a poem

Photo by Egor Litvinov on Unsplash

I have a vivid internal world

and none of you can compete.



I see whole galaxies in my mind.

Imagine full scenarios with people from far-off lands.

I interpret language—and its full meaning—

deeply and quietly.



In my bones.

In my skin.



I yearn for solitude

and meaning

in silence

and listlessness.



I love a liminal space.

I thrive in darkness.

I don’t enjoy the never-ending performance that society requires.



They say that autism is a deficit of social s k i l l s —

doesn’t make eye contact,

can’t stop fidgeting,

won’t say the right words

in the right order

for the people to understand

what you are trying to say.



They will find the worst meaning possible.

They will seek it out. Wrung dry from the bones of your words. Sucking all the meaning from your intentions out through your veins. 

Photo by Tim Mossholder on Unsplash

So I have largely lived my life inside my head.



I have a vivid internal world

and none of you can compare.



I draw each breath on the hope

that when I release it,

I will exhale out of present company

and into the angel of Solitude’s arms,

and rest

in listless prayer

until the end of time.



If there was a way for me to sit on the clouds,

I would find it.

If I could hike to the tallest mountain

and let it take my breath away,

I would.



But see—

I have a very vivid internal world, 

and I’m lonely.



I want people to know

that I yearn for understanding.

I genuinely,

deeply,

movingly,

meaningfully,

desperately,

exasperatedly,

exhaustingly,

painfully

desire—

friendship,

closeness,

meaning,

non-friction.



But all I get is this vivid internal world.

This bright, colorful, internal world.



Sometimes I see in pastels,

sometimes in jewel tones.

but always

with a fervent desire to be accepted

by everyone around me

and loved by those near and far.

Photo by Daniele Levis Pelusi on Unsplash

How much of the autistic experience

is just the human experience?



It makes you wonder:

Who am I without these labels or identities?

these lists of deficits?

these paragraphs of possibilities?

the genuine fear of disability?

the endless list of responsibility?



Who am I

if I can’t be myself?



Reaching out for help seems

useless,

pointless,

arbitrary,

meaningless.



I’m told it’s also somehow

rude,

hurtful,

mean,

negative. 



“Don’t point out the holes,” they say.

“Don’t look at the problems in our structure.”

“Why can’t you see the forest through the trees?”



Because it’s not the forest that hurt me, I say.

It’s the tree.

It did it.

It hurt me.



But all they can think about

is me burning down the forest. 

and the fumes,

making them

cough

and cry

and yearn

and burn—

and feel, finally,

what I feel

every moment

I’m not in my vivid internal world.

Photo by Matt Howard on Unsplash

What do you call this feeling?

What do you propose I do?



My autistic mind is banned from society.

It’s left out in the cold.

It’s beaten to a bloody pulp.



My hands can’t do the right thing.

My words find the wrong ears.

My love is too extreme—

too suffocating,

too needy,

too paralyzing.



It takes a strong person to sit with me in silence—

because this silence is heavy.



It bears the weight of a system

that has nothing left to give

To the people that need it most.



It weighs me down

in ways I can’t comprehend.



I don’t know how to lift this

off of my shoulders,

so I can spend more time

in my vivid internal world.



I don’t like this world.

I don’t like the one outside my brain.

I like the one inside—because



I can feel things there.



And the feelings are deep,

and they move

every being

that comes in contact

with my space

and my mind

and my vivid internal world.



I don’t know

if these words make sense

or if they even find

the right rhythm

or the right flow

or the right meaning

or the right person.



But I speak anyway.

I reach anyway.

I yearn anyway.

I dream anyway.



I get lost

in my vivid internal world.

Photo by The Prototype on Unsplash

Sometimes I let another in.

Even if it brings me joy,

it’s painful—



being perceived,

being witnessed,

being watched,

being surveilled—

by another soul,

by other souls,

by a soulless system,

by the very thing

I don’t want

in my thoughts.



I left the cesspool of social media behind

so I could find my vivid internal world

and rest there.



It’s hard to let people in. 

Photo by Maxim Barbuhin on Unsplash

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