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Windows. Spaces. Tiny perforations.

Fissures dynamic always shifting melding moving without punctuation.

Crevices of grace.

Fleeting portals.

Once grasped, hold fast.


Frantic. Furious. Fleet.



Racing against the inevitable tide of malaise soon to follow.

There are never enough hours in a day to achieve all that I want to achieve. Moments of functionality are little gems, droplets of mercy, precious innocuous miracles, hidden in plain sight. No, I do not complain, although these wonderful moments of full functionality come too few and far between for my liking.

I dislike the current terminology that is accorded to autism. What do they mean by “high-functioning” anyway? I do not feel at all highly functioning. Every second of existence, even in the subconscious, is an in-your-face, palpable challenge to overcome one thing or another.

Any amount of optimum functioning has to be done quickly, within the tiny minuscule beaded moments where mind and body are in optimum synchronicity. The rest of the day, the rest of existence itself, is mired in a grand cosmic struggle. Gremlins, little demons of disablement and disability (these are different one from another). I surprise myself that anything gets done at all, really. I owe it much to my supportive friends, and to Lucy.

The Grand Miracle is that despite this seemingly monumentally ponderous mammoth dancing around inside my brain-space, each day is yet a new day, and chipping away as persistently as possible, my journey has taken me where I am today. Does that make any sense at all? I am not sure. My brain has plopped into a vat of boggy stew, it seems. I apologise for the ramble. If nothing else, do enjoy the visual captures, then!

My Angel is huffing at me from her cosy mound of fluffy blankets in bed. Lucy is saying, “Please stop pasting your face onto the lighted box and just get into bed, for heaven’s sake, mumma!”

Good night, friends. Yes, tomorrow is another.

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