Been thinking about the things we do that keep us sane, the habits, the hobbies. For me, as long as I can remember, it’s been writing. I wrote as a boy, trying to make sense of my busy brain long before diagnosis of Autism came. I wrote to survive my classes in school, to escape the noise of the teacher, of the students, of a barrage of sensory attacks. I wrote poetry, songs, sometimes just my own name over and again as a way to escape. I do, still, and I always will. Writing, for me, is the only way I know to make sense of the chaos in my mind, it’s the only place where I can just open like a tap and let all the clutter out. This, precisely this, is why I do not edit what I write, I do not censor it or try to mold it into something it does not wish to be. I write to be free, and this is all. The fact that people are willing to read anything that comes out, the fact that so many of you beautiful souls have found it, perplexes me, and means more than I know how to say. I write so I breathe, and thank you, for hearing these sighs.
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