“Burn The Sun”

Oh, look. Here I am, again, arguing with the voices in my head. Well, anyway, that’s what everyone else calls them. To me, there’s the program scripts I use to process life, and the behavior of other people. Those are the voices that fight. The scripts come into conflict, and they don’t negotiate with each other. No. They have at it, just like the different humans in life that don’t agree with each other have at it.

And I get to pick up the pieces, and try to make heads or tails out of the chaos, and piece things back together.

Today, lots of the voices are being rather vocal. The loudest one is one of the newest, one that didn’t really exist until everything in life changed all at once in 2010. That’s the voice that’s screaming, “Autistic! I don’t get it! Never assume I can!” That’s the one the loud music is trying to calm right now.

And I’m just trying to remember to breathe, so I don’t go into a panic state, and do something silly like try to wash dishes while standing on one foot, using one hand, just out of sheer spite for the world.

Even then, it’s a given I’ll end up on the stationary bike tonight, putting in 45 minutes of time, just like I did last night. Covering who knows how many miles again. Think I hit 11.1 last night. 45 minutes. Never really worked up a sweat.

That’s the thing with using exercise, endurance training, as a method of coping with the stress of trying to figure out how to keep from throwing bookcases at people (yes, I said book cases, and I mean entire, 5 shelf units). You end up with endurance levels that are stupidly high. Not record setting pace, as in I can’t set records for distance covered in the time. But I can cover the time for days on end, maybe weeks on end. Just trying to stay calm enough to work in this fucked up world.

“Burn The Sun”. Lovely song. No words. No words at all. Raw emotion. Captured in music. Gotta love Edge of Paradise. They do some amazing music. That’s what I feel like doing right now. Burning the sun. Burn it all down. Fix everything. Get rid of all the insanity. All the stupidity. All the duality. All the fighting, and arguing, and everything else. Burn the sky. Take it all back to bare dirt. Let life start over, ‘cause hell, humans have totally fucked it up, haven’t we.

With these people, say this. But with these people, say this instead. And with this group, say this 3rd thing. Because. All 3 are right. You heard me. All 3 are right. The magic trick is, they’re not right at the same time. Which one is right is dependent on which people you’re dealing with. And the best part? Even the people you’re dealing with can’t figure that out. No. They have to scream, and claw, and fight, and argue, and punch each other in the face, and burn down houses, and hang people from trees, because those people can’t figure out what’s right.

Sometimes, I’m just done. And that’s when Burn The Sun shows up. Or something like it. I hit that wall. That mythical “straw that broke the camel’s back”. And I have to back out, or go all Sith Dark Lord on people.

Then there’s the language itself. Yeah. That language is about as precise as using a 50 megaton nuke to kill a fly. “Humans”, but NOT those humans, or those, or those. “Christians”, but not those, or those, or those. “Disabled”, but not those, or those. The imprecision that lets everyone who hears or reads the words interpret them almost at random. “He said this!”, “No! He said this!”, “Both wrong!” With the guy who said it going, “What’d I do? What’d I say? Shit, I’m not ever talking again! Because this chaos ain’t worth it!”

Yeah. And these humans, damn near all of them, don’t have a clue what it’s like. ‘Cause. Autism. To them, this is how it is. How it’s supposed to be. Pure chaos unleashed. Always fighting, arguing, having wars, making 400 billion religions, all of which claim they are the ONE right religion, having cultures that declare other cultures don’t exist, because those other cultures aren’t like they’re supposed to be.

The chaos. And the insanity. And I see it everywhere. All day long. Every day.

Someone stands next to me at work, and I’m like, “OK. Now what do I do. It’s ad-lib time! How do I behave? What’s appropriate? What’s not appropriate? Do I need to observe facial expressions, and eyes, and do some kind of mythical mathematics that tells me this is a special case, and I need to respond in a different way? Do I need to detect things in their tone of voice that I can’t even hear? And then there’s body language. Do they look like they need to throw something? Or hug something? Or take a machete to someone? Or something else?

And I get, what, 1 second to figure all that out? One second? Really?

Can you say, “Take a wild ass guess!” because that’s what it comes down to. Taking a wild ass guess. Safe solution, shove hands in pockets, and make sure your appearance says, “I’m paying attention to you.” Most times, that works. Except, of course, when they don’t want you paying attention, at which point, too late, you already fucked that up.

How come everything has to be “these humans!”

No, wait. That’s where the language is imprecise again, isn’t it. Even when speaking of “these humans in particular”, it isn’t necessarily all those particular humans.

Sometimes, I just can’t. Like now. So, Burn The Sun it is. And maybe dishes. And a long session on the stationary bike. One that goes until I can’t walk without wobbling.

All this, because I can’t figure out something someone else tells me is so simple to figure out.

Human society. A train wreck. And no one has any idea how to get off the train.


#ThursThreads Week 464 : And I Can’t Do That

Deborah was true to her word, like always. After I banged on my piano keys for a while, my head started to clear, and I started doing the math about what happened. “Maybe it wasn’t an electromagnetic field.”

“It wasn’t,” she sat in her chair, next to my piano, with my dinner on a tray in her lap. “It was one of us. One of the hidden.”

I didn’t say anything, I didn’t need to. She was an empath, a complete empath, one of the hidden herself. She knew everything I felt, and used that to piece together a lot of what I thought. She handed me the tray of food.

After I half emptied the can of soda she’d got me, I picked up the sandwich, looked at it, then at her. “One of us, huh?”

She nodded, “I felt so afraid. So desperate.”

“We need to find them, don’t we. Stop them before they do this again, and maybe kill someone.”

“No. You need to,” I could count, on one hand, how many times she’d said no to me, and have fingers left. “She needs help. And I can’t do that.”


Deborah had one of those looks that said, “Yes,” and at the same time told me she was done talking about it. “How did you know which building to be in?”

She knew I couldn’t answer, that it was hidden, even from me. Something I felt, but never understood. “She’s calling for help, isn’t she.”


250 Words

It’s Week 464 of #ThursThreads, hosted by Siobhan Muir. The prompt told me to write this. It didn’t ask. It ordered. Please go read all the entries in this week’s #ThursThreads. They are always fun to read. And there are some great writers who show up every week.

#SwiftFicFriday Week 77 : Practice Your Music

Deborah had tried to talk me into staying at the hospital a few extra days, “Just to be safe.” I wouldn’t have it. A Fruit Loop out there somewhere able to crush buildings with air wasn’t a good thing, and I couldn’t let such a being run wild. Besides, they’d dinged me up, and tried to kill Deborah. Even though everything still hurt, I got out of the hospital. They made me sign a waiver, not for the first time.

Of course, she knew. She knew I was angry, and worried about her, and about air being used as a sledge hammer. Just like she knew she’d never talk me into staying in the hospital until the doctors let me out.

She drove. I knew better than to demand I drive. I knew she sensed every ache and pain I felt. It was that empathy thing. Something about her I could never figure out.

After we got home, she made me take a nap on the sofa, with the TV playing some random program, hoping I’d sleep. I remember I did drift off to dreamland, but the dreams didn’t go well. Something about watching a solid wall of air crush people that made me wake up.

She was right there, next to me when I woke. “Here. I know what you need.” She helped me to my feet, and led me to my piano. “Practice your music.”

I did. Like I said, she knew. That empathy thing, you know. She understood the music healed me in more ways than medicine ever could. It even cleared my mind, so I could see the pictures, hear the words my brain wanted me to. So I could understand what I needed to understand.

“Practice your music. I’ll bring you dinner in a bit.”

300 Words

It’s Week 73 of #SwiftFicFriday, hosted by Katheryn Avila. I’m wondering what the heck is going on with this story. There seems to be only one way for me to find out. Anyway. Please go read all the entries in this week’s #SwiftFicFriday. They are always fun to read. And there are some great writers who show up regularly.