Again the windmill

Page Twenty-eight

Thursday 10 Sept 2009…     Turners Fails

Well, as of yesterday, the human friendship seems to be back on, at least for the time being. Jesus, the usual neurotypical roller-coaster. And yet for the days it was off, I retreated so far into myself, into my autistic self, that I’m not sure I want to come out. A large part of me wants to stay where I was.

So what is the advantage of withdrawing inside and staying there? For me? No more seeking that certain purity in humans and suffering when I don’t find it. Staying in the certainty of where I know for sure that purity exists: my memories of animals, and music, and snow and ice and trees and the sky. I can’t participate in these things very much anymore: it’s far too painful without my animals. But I have my memories of all the years of participation in these mysteries, these purities, these joys. On my journals and in my photos and inside me, I have the memories of the only kind of world I can truly inhabit.

Zoë-Jane, six years dead today; a candle in my heart for you.

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