The crowds bellowed, chanting a reverberating chant, stars dancing across the night sky; joyous, harmonious, and unified. The ruler decrees a notorious sentiment, a sentiment unacceptable to the land the people claim as their own. A superstar, a politician, a journalist, an academic, and a citizen unite till their last breath. Standing in solidarity against the despot whose tyranny claimed the life of many. The streets are laced with the blood of the fallen, the innocent, and the judged. Without trial, without repose. Violence rules over the miasma of the night, stunning even those that stood ignorant on the sidelines. The lurkers and the watchers, unaffected no longer. The time on peace ran out when the despot took the throne. Now, the crowds shout and scream, their fists in the air with chants of freedom. The freedom they deserve, the freedom that is their right.

Thousands across the land stand together, bound by the same cause; freedom. Once again, a fire is ignited in the hearts of many. Every person comes out to drag the despot himself on the stand. No one stands idle, no one watches from the margins of privilege. The veil is pulled away in the most scathing manner, leaving nothing but perforations in its wake. The portal opened and the demons stepped out, and the crowds shout. They shout for the land, they shout for the end of their suffering. The land that once was, no longer remains. Changes, a little in a name here, a little in a song there, destroy the fabric of what was once a most majestic part of the world. Tethered by the ropes of greed and arrogance, blinded by the glimmer of untouched, unchecked power, the land now stands as a mere shell of its former self. But, hope.

Hope, because the crowds gather. They continue to stand together in droves. Stadiums, parks, schools, and monuments reverberate with the sounds and shouts of freedom from oppression. Students do not hold back, parents do no hold back, and while the unsuspecting leader, the despot, sits in abandon surrounded by mirrors to celebrate his narcissism, the crowds gather to bring him to trial. A hammer and a nail. That is all it takes to break the mirror. The despot is brought back to his place on Earth that is our land. The crowds tearing apart his arrogance and his unaffected daze, his imperviousness and his thick skin. He falls.

Not a drop of blood is shed. No violent calls echo in the now mirror-less room. Only the crowds who stand, their heads high, palms together as if in prayer, and a ghost of a smile hinting at days to come. Days full of promise. Days full of hope.

there's no opinions. we exist no matter what. whether or not you decide to be angry about our existence is up to you. but what's the point? why be angry when you can feel just as much potency in love? why is there supposed to be one way to love, one way to present yourself, one way to exist? there isn't. we are not sick. we are not new. we are not going through a phase. we are not existing to force the "gay agenda" on the world. but even if we were, what's it to you? My existence does not harm you in any way. There's no option to have an opinion on my existence. I will exist no matter what you think. I will be gay and queer and proud no matter what.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Nick asked Ann. She was puzzled at the question because it was one she was expecting, but not at this particular moment. Maybe somewhere down the line. They had just made love, but admitting a belief in something so intangable and highly speculative was far more intimate than adolescent sex.

“I wasn’t expecting you to ask me that. Why did you ? What made you ask me that, in bed, post orgasm?” Ann genuinely wondered.

“I don’t know. It just popped into my head and I felt like asking. I don’t think I believe in ghosts and wondered if you did. You seem like a pretty skeptical person, but you never know. We’ve only known each other a couple of months and I really like you. I guess I just wanted to see if I was falling for a weirdo.” Ann felt a sense of comfort with Nick’s loose candor.

“Believing in ghosts isn't just for weirdos anymore. There's so many shows, youtube channels and documentaries about them now, it almost feels like people who don’t believe in ghosts are considered unusual. We are in a post rational world these days. People are looking past what’s obvious and running towards the unexplained.” Ann said with a sanguine tone, while she stood up from the disheveled bed and put her clothes on. Nick watched her.

“I’m up for whatever. If its real, cool. If it’s not...then, whatever. But it would be cool if they were real. Don’t you think?” Nick asked, taking his jeans off the floor, boxer shorts still inside, and sliding both on under the covers.

“Hey? Would you be okay with meeting a family member of mine?” Ann asked, twisting her dirty blond hair into a clip, walking toward the bathroom, off the bedroom in Nick’s small apartment.

“So we’re doing that now?” Nick asked, honestly. He doesn't have an aversion to it, he just wasn’t sure where Ann was going with the idea. He has feelings for Ann, but isn’t sure if ‘meeting the parents’ is in order just yet.

“No. Not that whole thing. Neither one of us are ‘There’ yet. But, I’d like you to meet my aunt. She believes in ghosts. But not really ghosts. She believes in the unseen. She reads tarot cards and she has dreams that manifest sometimes. She’s pretty cool and meeting her isn’t like meeting parents. Aunt Jane doesn’t have expectations like everyone else does. She lives.

She had a dream about me a week ago, and told me about it. And in this dream a man asked me if I believe in ghosts. So, I think maybe the best thing to do, is to have you ask her. Are you up for it?” Ann was serious. Her aunt Jane was rarely ever wrong about these things and won’t make a big deal out of them. Although, Ann is well aware that Jane will find it enticing to have the opportunity to confront a manifest dream.

“Will she read my cards? How much does she charge?” Nick asks in an excited tone.

“Jane doesn’t charge. She asks you if you want a reading, and she probably won’t do one for you when you first meet her. She only reads for family and friends.

“When can I meet her?” Nick asks, putting his sweatshirt on.

“I can text her right now and see what she is up to. You good with heading over now if she is free?” Ann asks.

“Yup!” Nick replies, walks over to Ann and kisses her. She sends Jane a text.

“Hey Jane, my bf? LOL asked me if I believe in ghosts.

Can we come over?”

Nick continues with his affectionate petting while Ann waits for Jane to reply. She is receptive to his advances. Just as they are getting ready for round two, Ann’s text notification alerts her.

She opens the message.

“Sure, I’ve got a couple hours. Come by.”

Ann replies:

“b there in 10 minutes.”

“It’s good. She said we can come by.” Ann tells Nick. He is nearly drunk on arousal, and Ann puts a stop to it. “Come on. She’s not going to wait around all day. We can come back here after.” She puts her phone in the pocket of her tight blue jeans, kissing him back while calming his advances. He easily composes himself with the looming intrigue of Jane.

***

They walked into the old apartment building, and up the steep incline of stairs. The walls bubbled behind the wall paper with uneven horsehair plaster, that had fallen over a decade before. Ann inhaled the familiar smell of ancient must, bringing her mind back to mornings filled with music and games. Jane raised Ann from the age of 2 until Ann decided to leave at 16 to live with her mother, out of a sense of responsibility that she hadn’t inherited from either of her parents. Her memories of Jane’s home are calm and safe, making her wonder why she chose to dive back into the abyss of her dysfunctional mother. Teen angst was the conclusion she quickly came to, in her mind. Jane had left the large, cracked, green door opened, for Ann to walk in.

“Hey Jane.” Ann said, walking into the kitchen from the hallway. Jane turned and smiled while she poured three cups of espresso from her stove top, cast iron espresso maker. The kitchen was filled with the smell of dark coffee.

“Espresso, cappuccino or latte?” Jane asked, standing over the three mugs. She took a small metal carafe from her freezer and poured almond milk in it. She took the hand held frother and started to froth the milk.

“Could I have a cappuccino?” Ann asked.

“Me too, please!” Nick said.

“Three cappuccinos. Coming right up. Please sit down.” Jane replied, pouring the cold foam on top of the espresso in each mug. “The milk is already kind of sweet so I recommend not using sugar.”

“I don't think I’ve ever seen you use sugar.” Ann recalls.

“I don’t usually put milk in either, but I felt like something a little decadent today. So. What’s up?” Jane asks sipping coffee through the foam.

“This is Nick. We are seeing each other. And today, he asked me if I believe in ghosts.” Ann spoke in a matter of fact tone, knowing it’s preferable to Jane. She doesn’t appreciate soft language and dancing around an issue. Jane doesn't have time for nonsense. She knows that life is short and would rather it not be wasted with the time it takes to listen to insincere words.

“Ah. That’s why you're here.” Jane replied.

“That and the coffee.” Ann said with joking sincerity. Jane laughed. The childish giggle gave way to a middle aged sigh and smile. Jane looked at Nick. HIs handsome face was dulled by his unkempt hair and lose athletic clothes. She thought for a moment if he would let her dress him, that he would be just a bit dangerous. She amused herself by making him nervous with her glances. Jane understood Ann’s attraction, but knew it would end with adolescence.

“So. Did you answer him?” Jane asked Ann.

“I brought him here.” Ann answered.

“Was that meant to be an answer?” Jane asks, slight judgement in her voice. Ann was used to advocates answering her questions for her. A bad habit acquired from a foster care system that constantly ignored better ideas. Jane knew that once a child learns to depend on others to think for them, they would never try to think for themselves. No matter how hard she worked to change that fact, Ann was a product of pandering.

“I knew you could answer better than I could.” Ann said, flippantly.

“How can I answer a question about what you believe? No one but yourself should ever be able to determine your beliefs. And they should never be so rigidly structured that someone else feels confident in making that determination. The time we perceive is as fluid as a dream to creatures without clocks. Cats don’t limit their minds to the waking world, and neither should you. The question is yours to answer. Ask her again, Nick.” Jane was sure in her lecture and waited for Nick to take responsibility for Ann’s deflection. He did not disappoint.

“I think she was just freaked out by the dream you had and thought that it would be more fun to have you tell me about what you believe.” Nick said in true, smitten fashion.

“Now NIck, the human race would never have gotten anywhere if everyone waited for someone else to answer their questions. I will not answer someone else’s question.” Jane was stern, but not off putting. Nick was curiously attracted to her sense of self. Over 20 years his senior, he wondered what it might be like to be intimate with Jane. Not just sex, but all aspects of intimacy. Suddenly, Ann looked immature to him.

“I think I believe in ghosts.” Ann answers to break Nick’s gaze. Her jealousy propelled her. Jane smiled while drinking her coffee, satisfied with what she had accomplished. Pulling truth through competition is as easy as it is amusing to a middle aged woman.

“I don’t know if I do. I’d like to. But it just seems kind of stupid.” Nick replies. He’s afraid he insulted Jane. He didn’t.

“That’s because you have a Hollywood idea of things you cannot see. All this tarted up garbage about possessions, and narcissistic hauntings has been burned into the brains of three generations. Taking fun fiction and trying to turn it into fact from years of urban legend musings and illiteracy. Dickens, Einstein, Jung and other erudite minds all believed that energy cannot die. It must change form. That energy transfers and exists in other forms eternally and only imprints of its ancestry remain. And in that remnant of what once was, the human living world finds familiarity, and gets a glimpse behind that veil but never quite enough to understand. To the unseen, we might be ghosts. A memory of what they once were. A recognized perception of their late, fleshy suffocation. If their energy is ignited with memory and yours with fear, it may cause that veil to move for just enough time to question everything you thought true. Now that is a real haunting.” Jane can feel Nick is wooed by her soliloquy, and Ann too immature to understand. In Ann’s mind, Jane’s age and lack of concern for physical appearance made her no competition. A fallacious belief of the limited. Those things are masks that work only to soften the agony of uninteresting company. Buts as Ann has yet to learn, intrigue and sensuality isn’t stifled by socially imposed exclusivity. It is supernatural and not restricted to the confines of the physical world. It is energy, and it works best when in unexpected settings. Jane knows that eventually Nick will visit her, without Ann.

What happens when a full-duplex connection is terminated in one direction? No communication can be had, and then both parties are left with festering anxiety over what hasn’t been communicated. What if the full-duplex connections were both working as intended except the parties could only partially understand each other? There are unique horrors in this scenario. There’s a special kind of sadness, a unique poverty of compassion that happens when someone misconstrues your intentions. This is what it’s like to be autistic. We are trapped in a situation where the others misunderstand us as frequently as we misunderstand them. However, this world wasn’t built for us. And, unfortunately for us humans, we have no modems to make sense of the noise.

Imagine yourself in this position. You’re smart. You’re capable. But you’re also autistic. You’re a fucking weirdo and you know it. People expect you to either be a complete idiot or Rain Man. Anything in-between these poles garners a variety of reactions that are all colored by expectation. They’ll tell you that you should grasp coding without issue. They should know, their autistic cousin went to Purdue and now look at him; he’s working for Google. Sure, the weirdo eats cheese sticks in his boxers all day and would rather watch K-On than touch a woman’s tits, but that’s all besides the point. Their cousin’s a savant and so you should be too. Otherwise, what’s the point in keeping your ass alive?

And when you don’t feed the machine, when you prove that you’re not a gifted coder or a janitor-turned-mathematician they’ll turn around and cast expectations on you they wouldn’t place on themselves. Why couldn’t you be smarter? Look at you, all the autism and without any genius to show. What a fucking disgrace you are. Yet, notice how they never seem to add themselves to this equation. Not sure what I mean? Here, allow me to indulge in the autistic pastime of guiding you through a simple calculus.

The DSM-5, the holy bible of the psychiatric institutions throughout the United States, is a laundry list detailing what’s fucking wrong with us. In this list are dreaded diagnoses such as bipolar and autism. The Good Book details the negatives of autism. The most benign entry is essentially still negative: Great! you don’t slap yourself and you can act marginally normal. Good job, tiger, keep on keeping on with your masked autism. Notice, however, that none of our gifts are ever praised unless taken to the absolute extreme, e.g. Rain Man, Good Will Hunting, etc.

Nevermind the fact that autistics built and continue to build most of the technology (mostly) non-autistics use to pathologize us. They do so without the slightest hint of irony. Nevermind that autistic writers like Emily Dickinson have captivated audiences, or that recent genetics research has found that autistic genes have existed for millennia and are thought to have helped propel the species forward; no, nevermind any of that, because, my little autistic friend, you’ve got a weird way of talking to people.

So, despite our contributions to society, we are primarily judged on our social intuitions. Naturally, this makes sense: we’re a social animal, after all. But we're also intelligent animals when we want to be. As such, you’d think we’d move past such a reductionist duality. Especially when research has shown that non-autistics are fucking terrible at empathizing with autistics and vice versa. Researchers find that, unsurprisingly, autistics demonstrate a strong capability to understand each other and that the same follows for non-autistics interacting with their fellow non-autistics. However, communication breaks down when these two groups try to interact with each other. Why? Well, our brains are wired differently. If one’s fundamental experience of the world and their very method of cognition is different from another’s, it’s going to cause some misunderstandings. Experiencing culture shock when visiting a foreign nation is a similar albeit diluted version of this miscommunication. Except no one (save for white nationalists) would qualify the locals in this foreign land as behaving badly. Yet this is exactly how the behaviors of autistics are qualified.

Our tendencies are misunderstood by non-autistics who lack the capacity to understand why we do what we do. They don’t understand that the screaming autistic kid is screaming because the classroom he’s sitting in is filled with bright fluorescent lighting that cuts through his retina like a knife. Nor do they understand that the fire alarms cause actual fucking pain. They don’t realize that this kid’s got an encyclopedic memory and could out-research them without even trying. They don’t understand that this kid could be extremely useful at recognizing patterns because his lateral thinking abilities are significantly better than his peers’. No. They will only see the screaming child who they deem mentally deficient because he cannot articulate himself to his persecutors.

Think about it: You’re judged by everyone around you. You’re constantly measured up against peers and your actions are scrutinized with a laser focus because you’ve “acted out” before. You become both a scapegoat and a liability. You’re now in the crosshairs and this only makes you act out more because you don’t understand why you’re the target. As far as you know, you’ve only kept to yourself. You don’t like to socialize much because when you’ve tried in the past people treated you like shit. Nowadays, you find hanging with animals at the local shelter to be a much better option. Those animals display their true intentions to you. You understand them and they understand you. Naturally, a bunch of other autistics work there too.

In response, you’re labeled the oddball who’d rather hang out with dogs than people. This behavior is incomprehensible to those who’ve experienced the rejection you have. It’s one thing to be rejected by individuals. It’s a whole other case when the world rejects you. Your parents are constantly berated for having you and your existence seems like a mistake. People are always trying to change your behaviors despite them having an important cause. They don’t realize that your idiosyncratic hand movements are a means of regulating the sensory input flooding your brain. What’s worse is you’re damned if you and damned if you don’t. Non-autistics will pressure you to socialize or ostracize you outright if you refuse. In more extreme cases they may even institutionalize you. But when you socialize you’re repeatedly reminded that you’re a little irredeemable piece of shit who can’t understand the most basic social cues. To make matters worse, the autistics who can pass well enough do so at a cost. They burn out and fall into deep depression trying to force themselves to be something that they’re not.

No matter what you do or how you do it: you’re wrong. You’re wrong because you’re incomprehensible and non-autistics are terrified of those whom they cannot so easily relate to. So, they write myths about us. But we’re not deities in these myths. No, we’re the ones who ruin their lives. Ancient autism mommies would whisper of fairies who’d steal your lovely baby and live in her place. These devilish little fairies would grow as perfect replicas of your precious baby save for the fact that this kid’s hyperlexic and she’s kinda weird. I mean, she speaks in full sentences at three years old and other times she doesn’t speak at all. Also, why does she ask so many questions about the world? Surely, this little imposter is a fairy who’s stolen my good little neurotypical baby and is living in her place. Because even ancient people thought it more believable that their kids were abducted by little magical people than to face the reality that your child’s just different from you.

Ancient autism mommies aside, let’s return to the full-duplex conversation. The math follows that neither communication channel, non-autistic or autistic, can understand what the other is saying. Our software’s fundamentally different, and while the machine-level code can be deciphered, who wants reverse-engineer all that? So, it’s simpler to force normativity. Rather than to compromise and work to understand the foreign software, the communication channel with more wires, the non-autistic channel, will force the other to decode their messages while also complying with their own software. We committed the crime of having been wired differently so we’ve got to do all the work. And when you fail, they’ll say disparaging things about you in a book so that those who you thought would help you most, those who are supposed to be the arbiters of mental health will tell you that you’re the problem. You’re sick but there’s no cure.

So, they will tell you to grow a thick skin and play with some toys if you’re so uncomfortable. They will proceed to say that you’re such a little child because you play with these toys to achieve some modicum of comfort. Worst of all they will blame you for existing. They will gaslight you and swear that you’re the problem. I mean, look at you, you fucking creep. You can’t comply with our rules and we wrote this book. So stop your autistic screaming and get back to work, bitch. I’ve got a story to share and Twitter’s down, so chop-chop!

I have always felt just on the verge of understanding, hands outstetched to the stars above, fingertips a breath away from brushing the constellations, yet so far away.

Everything spins past at a dizzying pace, people and places, all voices lost to the wind. I can remember hot summer nights and cigarette smoke, but never faces. I remember high heels clicking against the gymnasium floor in time with the music, but never the song.

I often feel that I exist entirely in memory, drifting back and forth within the unconcious mind like a dreamer, like a parasite. My body goes through the motions. When I hover before the bathroom sink brushing my teeth, blank stare fixated on the smeared surface of the mirror, images of the past superimpose themselves over reality. She stands at my side again. Swearing she loves me, spewing hot breath and empty promises like smoke.

I stand long enough to miss the bus before I realize I'm still dreaming and spit out the toothpaste. The icy water bites in the aftermath of mint, and now I see myself trying adult toothpaste for the first time, sputtering and scrunching up my nose against the burn as my father smiles. Stepping outside, I push the memory away.

The drive is drowned out in music and daydream, and much of the day follows suit. I spend hours wading through hypothetical situations and fictional worlds, pushing reality aside until I choke on it. Nothing is interesting enough to hold my attention for long.

When will I feel something real again? Will I ever?

Bad days are spent sprawled across the cold tile of my bedroom floor, unseeing eyes trained on the popcorn ceiling. I puzzle through years worth of mistakes, failed relationships, details missed in the moment. Maybe if I would have tried harder. Maybe if I could have been a better daughter, a better person, a better friend.

I smile through the burn of unshed tears, because at least that feels like something real. When they fall, searing hot against my cheeks, I think back to all those nights curled up in the dark, terror coursing through every inch of me like a virus, like something infectious and foreign. It trembles through my tiny fingers like an earthquake.

Sometimes, a flicker of light will catch my eye. I'll find a bird perched on the windowsill, or familliar faces caught in the golden light, or warm hands wrapped around my own. Becoming lost in the tumble of regret and the need to understand is easy, but I find myself eager to push through and smile at the little things, to draw myself back.

Maybe I will never reach the constellations, but I can always choose to enjoy the view.