Stretched along a small fractional time-span of life which I have lived in comparison to the elders around me, I sought to wonder my inked mind of swirlyness in which fragments put out of the ghost-like fog like bearing lanterns in London in times of old.
My mind is blocked in certain areas of passage but not as much as it used to be in terms of having a “seeing mind” and “hearing brain” that boggles with pre-filtered thoughts that extract readily through my fingertips as if a giant piece of knowledge was wailed with me knowing why or what it is used for.
I would say if anything my mind is “human” as subjective as a term should be, but never the less as true as the sun in the sky and the forests in the wood that is in mind at the heart of the matter, the core that runs the coils, the heart-mind that beast my inner cavern of light and darkly thoughts .
My eager soul is not wanting the when whole cake of me to be seen as “autistic” because in the end if you had an “autistic cake” would it really just taste of “autism” I think it tastes of so much more drenched a mouth of fruitful flavoursome differences that colour my being stretched on a canvas of existence.
Paul Isaacs 2018