How’s everyone doing?
I’m in the process of unpacking at my new house and let me tell you: it is a chore. I have so much stuff. Like, I knew I had a lot of stuff but good lord. I don’t think I was aware that it was this bad. And I also had completely forgotten that unpacking might just be worse than packing? (And I hated packing.)
The upside is that I’m getting to organize and arrange and decorate solely to my own tastes. That means there’s an embroidery hoop with a Lee Bains III & the Glory Fires lyric stitched into it right by my front door. There’s a “Kindness Is Cool” print in my kitchen. There’s a massive painting of some mountains behind my couch. There’s a bookcase dedicated to J.R.R. Tolkien on proud display. It’s very me.
It’s important in life to be yourself. You’re the only one that this world has got, so it doesn’t do to try to be someone else.
Some days I still have to work on this. Surely it would be easier to be neurotypical and calm and, like, cool? But that’s not really me. I’m autistic. Anxious. Exuberant. I have never once had any chill. I am forever enthused about things. At least this far in my life I have learned that it is way more fun to be excited about things than it is to be cool. The urge is still there, though. Being cool generally makes you more universally appealing. More easily palatable. Isn’t that the goal? To get everyone to like you? I don’t think there’s anything inherently wrong in wanting people to like you. That’s pretty much how humans make friends. But let’s strive to not be consumed with it, yeah? Let’s attract people to us like the stars attract stargazers: because they’re just so awesome we can’t help but stare.
I leave you today with a short poem about creating yourself in a world and among people who may not be ready for it.
Untitled
I want to write worlds that my mother will never see.
Entire universes where I exist as myself and only myself.
Galaxies in which I am never hidden.
Lands where my passions are currency
and my name is the native tongue.
I want to write places
that are seen and heard and loved
just as they are
with no caveats or stipulations
just calm breezes in the afternoons
and wildflowers in the morning.
Beautiful poem and good point, Sarah. I found you through Corey’s Substack. 👍