401: To The Woman Afflicted with Aspergers

This is my current truth, nothing less, nothing more.

I believe presently Aspergers is an affliction of the human condition. I do not believe people with Aspergers are any different than the ‘typical’ person. I believe the person with Aspergers is in a heightened state of awareness. He or she is more aware of the inner makings of the mind and thoughts, and in thusly so, trapped in the pre-awakened state.

Wherein, many individuals can walk around without analyzing each and every decision, people still do. They are still thinking the same thoughts and reaching the same conclusions as a person with Aspergers; they are just less aware that they are doing so. By less, I do not mean worse or to a lesser degree; to me this is as if we are each looking through a window from the depths of our internal self. We each have the same window, the same beauty, the same ability and capacity, but some windows are covered with deeper films. Does this make the one seeing more clearly or less clearly any less? No. The window is still the window. And behind the window is still the ever-shining light.

This is not to say that only people with Aspergers have a keener view, only to say those with Aspergers seem to have a natural tendency to understand the inner workings of complex thoughts and reasonings, enabling them to venture into the intricate makings of philosophy, communication, and the “ways” of the world. How or why isn’t important at this time, whether a cosmic chance, a genetic variation, a spiritual affliction, or something else, doesn’t matter. What matters is that this is occurring.

In stating this, I understand that Aspergers is clearly a label, and nothing more: a manmade word that attempts to explain a cluster of behavioral, intellectual, and emotional attributes; a manmade word that has already reached the brink of extinction in man’s needling to make something of nothing. That is: to turn what already has been found and claimed, into another something to fit the maze of reasoning man has attempted to establish. To mix and fit a pre-established made up condition into another newly established seems the work of idle thinkers, but I make no judgment so, only to point out the audacity of their cause and how making one into another by name, does not make the person change in circumstance or personhood.

In stating this, too, I understand that many, many people are also at the edge of awakening, and having Aspergers is no less prerequisite than any other label man has invented, be that: female, male, Jewish, Christian, Muslim, Buddhist, Agnostic, or what have you. But I do agree, within myself, and self alone, that what I have experienced as of late, demonstrates the potentiality of Aspergers to be more of a spiritual affliction of inner trappings than anything else. Perhaps it is the mind that makes this so, or something more; no difference. Whether one grasps onto the mind as the reason or the spirit, the end result is the same; at least for me, Aspergers felt as affliction—a wrought iron affliction it be.

In seeing this, the conclusion I have recently reached through the surfacing of my own relief from said affliction, I recognize there is absolutely no need for one to find relief through religion, or even spiritual refuge. The only relief I found, and was able to continue to bask in, is in the coming into my own self. That is to say digging back through where I had buried me, and finding her there weak, filling her with her own goodness found in self and others, and then purging with her all the unanswered hopes and dreams. Here together we worked through the labyrinth of lies of society and the game-makers, and the game-players we stared down steadily, each a harbor for the other, each adding to the armor we forbade. I cannot explain this process, even as I attempted to do in writing after writings, as I know only the eyes that look upon my words are the judge and decipherer, and no variable amount of steering or recollection one obtains will lead the one in the direction of my own thoughts. I have recognized, I am as ghost to the world, no more visible than the air one breathes, less so, in actuality, as one must feed off the air, and no one need feed off of me.

So alas, I am in this state of relief, having no roadmap to offer, except the words that pour out of me from a place of self so distant, yet so clear, that the offerings feel secure in their rendering, though funny they sound, indeed, even to the scriber who writes as witness with rising smile. I cannot say how I have found these things, or how I know these things, but the words I have let leak upon the past page upon page in the aforementioned works are my inner testimony. Whether I be mad woman, gifted genius, or something of another nature and finding, I know not, and I no longer struggle to understand something so unfamiliar and familiar to self all at once. I only know to love who this is that is this me, and to love who it is that is this you, and the rest makes no difference whatsoever in any measure. And so, from here, I can pour out from a place of love, wrung dry of all fear. The purpose only to be and nothing more, to pour out what is this me from vessel to substance, so I too can breathe in the absence of day.

In knowing Aspergers is an affliction, I state this not to negate the condition, to make it less, or wrong, or even sparse; I state this in hopes, if hope there be, in bringing further clarity to the viewer who takes in the ramblings of this twisted mind. I hope that in doing so the person can turn inward and find where she last stood, rediscover her lost hope and be who she is without pre-thought or want or need. That she can find her beauty locked behind the window bright.
In saying this I have established a roadmap of sorts, though I know nothing until I type, and am just as interested to see what surfaces as the next traveler come.

The makings of Aspergers are distinctively two-fold. In one degree there is the affliction. But this affliction is not brought on by sin or cause or some predestined circumstance. It just is. Whether created by self, or society, or God, or some other act of nature, who is to know, and who is to care. It is what it is at this moment, and nothing more. The first of the makings is the primary cause, what feed the rest, and this is the high-intellect that allows the person of Aspergers to analyze things and events at such depth that the mind can become thy very enemy. Lost in thought the world vanishes, and one lives in a prison, or chamber, depending on the imaginings and denial, and is there for eternity.

She is lost in the inner-workings of all she has brought into herself, all she has been taught, all she has seen and gathered. She is a deep basket, able to carry so much information and ponderings that it is no wonder she becomes lost in the basket itself and forgets that she is not this basket but the collector of self. She forgets she is not these thoughts, this past, this future, and this corresponding fear. She remains trapped in what feels like safety but which is actually a darkness of a forgotten self. She has been told by the many and the masses that she is less than, different, not enough, and to be forgotten. When in truth she is made more than enough, so complex in her thinkings, that the excess becomes her very tool to the victim.

She is making herself more confused in the searching. Responding to the agony of contradictions in two ways: searching out more and burying herself further and/or retreating into a dismal state of lost hope. These are the two paths she sees: One of needing to be more and one of needing to stay as less. Neither path leads to salvation from self.

The only path that I see worthy is through the process of elimination. Where we have been bred to take in more to aid us in dilemma, whether this be through product or wantings, the truth is to be found in taking in less. We have taken in enough already. And there are not answers waiting to be found that will set the afflicted free.

The only way to free oneself is to return to the chamber, say thee prison within, and stay there; and in the waiting find self and bring her into the light, bring her light out to the world. This is a personal and very intense process that can only be done through the very fragile thread of love of humanity. One must see the light in others and thusly find the light in self. One must see the light in all. This is extremely difficult for one so afflicted by what would be perceived as predators, villains, and rightful ones. Even the persecutors themselves play into the affliction. For the very thing that shall save the one, is the one that has in illusion hurt the one. But this is why the female with Aspergers has been given the gift of great emotion and love—all the emotions are two: love or fear. We can therefor turn off the fear and turn on the love. In this way the rest is burned out in the flame of love. It is the only way; there is no other path.

The second of the making is the ability to see between the lines, to decipher that there are no rights or wrongs. There are no rules. There are no reasons. We can clearly take in so many rules of the way to be that we become entirely unwound in ourselves from the reasonings behind the reasonings. From the start of no start. From the man running in some endless game. We see this clearly when we are engaged in conversation and struggling to be who we are to be, but not knowing who this being is. We see this in all we do. This is the affliction, as well, but the greatest of saviors. For how can we stay in such suffering? Endless suffering of seeing through the illusion.

Before we were told, by self, or by another to change, and to become that of what is the game before us. But this is not something that works. We have tried, and in trying we have found our very self retreating in form back into the chamber, hiding away, whether in reality or psyche/spirit, makes no difference. We are hiding. This is the same as the false path. The one of retreating or the one of trying to gather more information—in neither is the rescue found.

One must dive into the illusion and claim it for what it is. This can be done in various ways, but two distinct measures are in announcing your goodness and light to the world through speech, creation, and genuine love of heart. There can be no dismay, no fear, no misery, no blindness, no wanting and no reasoning behind it. This love of self must be rebirthed and then sprouted new, shared with the world. To do so before would cause greater separation of self and outcome, for to have such outcome without the root of love is to set yourself up for predetermined and definite failure. You can only speak from the place of heart—and you will know this place for it will heal you and the world.

You have been gifted all you need to make this excursion; through works or studies; through various outlets in your life; through what draws you in closer and makes you safe; choose these same ways of your avenue to deeper self; do what you must to take out the insides within and lay them out to the world. Cast away doubt that you are unlovable and unworthy and flawed. You have been given this affliction, whether formed by self, nature, or another, for reason, and the reason is for your freedom.

You aren’t trapped in the darkest of chambers; your window is being wiped clean daily, and in this you can see your path more clearly. You only need take the first step and acknowledge the affliction and all shall unfold as intended, and your goodness shall shine out to the world and set us each free, for you are an essential key to the changing of the tide: to pulling out the authentic cord of humanity so we may all sail through the sky in your light. Doubt not what I say, or choose to doubt. There is no choice I can make or perceive. I only say what is in my heart, and bid you do the same deed.

Photo on 5-3-13 at 6.26 PM

“A human being is part of the whole called by us universe, a part limited in time and space. We experience ourselves, our thoughts and feelings as something separate from the rest. A kind of optical delusion of consciousness. This delusion is a kind of prison for us, restricting us to our personal desires and to affection for a few persons nearest to us. Our task must be to free ourselves from the prison by widening our circle of compassion to embrace all living creatures and the whole of nature in its beauty. The true value of a human being is determined by the measure and the sense in which they have obtained liberation from the self. We shall require a substantially new manner of thinking if humanity is to survive.”
~ Albert Einstein.

400: Entered

Where you stand, I enter. My sunlight opened in the ray of you. Where you are, I be, nestled between the edges of your making. I am the sugar sprinkled cross the sunrise desert, the frosting dipped beneath and within, yellow-dancing in the outskirts of my thoughts. Where I travel, you are, carried upon my shoulders, the lightest of feathers, blanketing me, my shield of angels splendor. I spin, come round each wake, reborn in your giving and eternal goodness. I rise; the angelic force instilled gently like the wind through the meadow spring. I bubble and wrap in the bluest-blue, the stillness awoken in your cleansing waters.

Where you stand, I enter. My darling lover of the fallen night, the darkness dripped away as canvas cleansed with the brushes wet; each color washed over with newness and new day. A caravan of awakening upon awakening, surprises always there but never seen. You move, and I follow, the drapery of your kindness a trail of delight, smoothing past the garden’s gaiety as candle wax of brevity. I drip, you drip. I bleed, you bleed. Connected we are in the tumbling of my being. Unspun and rewoven into the kaleidoscope of me within me, the light swollen as the woman with child, birthing and rebirthing the newfound hope.

Where you stand, I enter. I glide, the child on your coattail, following a form I neither see nor want, but desire, my rain to the petal wept, my seed to the fallen bird. I soar, the embers of my mind cascading down to the soil of naught, and slipping into the oceans that be, sailing once and then again, into the mystery of time. Sprouting in the eternalness of river led to mouth, and mouth led to sky. I am this. I am this drumbeat of the earth, the willow tree that touches down in gratitude and meets the tender grasses with her open hands. I am this. The weathered-breast of soldier fought, bowing down in remission and remembrance to echoes of the battlefield. I have retreated to the highest ground that leads to nowhere but to thy very self. And here, in the chambers still, I watch, my eyes as falcon born, dreaming of the ways I traveled. For I am dreamer yet, trapped in the window of my memory.

Where you stand, I enter. I hear you as I hear my very voice. The rhythm feeds my withered bones, the dauntless eyes erased, the gauntlets tossed empty. Here is where I sparkle, my soul leaped forward from the place of behind to the place of entrance. Here where I stand, you enter, taking my tethered thoughts and bleeding them out to the world. My sacrifice, your sacrifice. My heart, your heart. My enemy made clear in the taking of circumstance of my liking, when bitter liking it be. And thusly, I am sweetened, made as bread to the master, ripened in the cream and butter nut of goodness. So that when I look upon the thoughts that were, I see the emptiness of cause, the fawning ways in which I walked. How with danger I froze, the deer-dove I was, with wings of no service in the state of fear.

Where you stand, I enter. I know not what I do or what I do, who I am or what I be. I know nothing of your kindness or your glory. I know not face or name of maker. I know not if exist exists. And in this I know not if my voice is but rising to thy very own chambers of light and there made feed for the mass of me. None other but I, listening to the merry voice of reason lost. No more than this, my empty vessels feeding upon the nibbles of hope. Yet, here I rest, in the serenity of uncertainty. For no matter the form, or shape, or even the distance from the dwelling to the home of home, if I be not home already, then the waiting is of peace. The waiting is of necessity lost and freedom found. I care not what you be or how you be, or what layman’s ways I set upon your threshold, for it matters not to me the way in which you came, only that you entered so.