Tag Archives: innocence

Second of Asperger’s Ten Traits – Overwhelmed Innocence


“2) We are innocent, naive, and honest. Do we lie? Yes. Do we like to lie? No. Things that are hard for us to understand: manipulation, disloyalty, vindictive behavior, and retaliation. Are we easily fooled and conned, particularly before we grow wiser to the ways of the world? Absolutely, yes. Confusion, feeling misplaced, isolated, overwhelmed, and simply plopped down on the wrong universe, are all parts of the Aspie experience. Can we learn to adapt? Yes. Is it always hard to fit in at some level? Yes. Can we out grow our character traits? No.”

Used with permission from @everydayaspergers. Originally published in Samantha Croft‘s -now former- blog, Everyday Asperger’s, as The Ten Traits.

It’s so complicated to write about one’s self, as it feels like those haunting times when belittled and patronized, you were forced into believing that standing out is never outstanding, that the biblically endorsed parental beating you were about to receive -again- was “justified” by your “gullible stupidity” in believing that the worthless toy you traded your brand-new toy for, it’s of equal value… And your attempt to save yourself by honestly saying that your “friend” told you so, just increased the number of blue stripes on your butts…

There you were, 11 years old, not really understanding why your maths teacher keeps slapping you and calling you an idiot for not understanding his lessons, unimpressed that you’ve found faults in the theory of a finite universe, which you can’t mathematically explain, but asked the simple question: “if this line would be the end of the universe, what’s the other side of the line made of?”

Because it’s hard to believe that your “best friend”, whom you’ve just saved from his self-destructive path, offered him a share in everything you had just to see him fulfilling his potential, finally left with your spouse, taking your apartment as well…

One of those days you suddenly realized that life on this planet sucks, and your only true “friend” lives right there, within the walls of your uniqueness, and the “us and them” has been irreversibly reduced to “me, and I don’t care who else”.

(to be continued…)

To my autistic diary…


When its motion stopped,
I realised that my circle of life
became an insignificant spot,
desperate, frightened, alone,
like a tired fire juggler
abandoned by an audience
too dull to notice
the beauty of the single detail
constructing their illusion…

“How odd” he said,
“In vitro, every now and then
becomes a schism
embedded deep between
what’s left, and yet to be…”

Streets become discontinued cobbles,
trees become ungerminated seeds,
all birds remain abandoned egg shells,
and every life’s a single heart’s
unfinished tapestry of beats…



stabbed was I
by anyone who came into my own…
invited them I
and felt ashamed at being naked,
trapped between my why…
and theirs…

shalom’s all gone
unlost, unfound,
and bound to understand.

reflected image Narcissus,
of frozen sand and leaves,
an echo cleaves
to your distorted image…

water has never been a good reflection of our wanted innocence…

ask Noah…

Picture: sao2005

The Girl with…


No one’s afraid anymore
of fragile girls with dragons
tattooed anywhere in between
the top of their heads
and the long, old train which
left the day innocence
and hope
were last seen in their tears…
When dies, innocence leaves a hollow scar,
in which hope lays before the final door slam,
an egg.
It lays there petrified, deep beneath pages
of runaway gospels.

On the day when all guardian angels
will cover away the sight of dying children,
a mighty flaming sword shall fall…

That day, the fragile girls shall return.
With their dragons.

Social Poem 3


“Does anybody here remember Vera Lynn?”

No one out there to remember,
no one to reply.
Innocence is past, with
no one to imagine what is was…
Legions of faded poppies
marching quietly over ashes
of once resurrected hopes;

When I was younger
I remember dreaming about being older;
now that I’m older
I don’t dare dreaming anymore.
Only at noons, early afternoons,
maybe evenings I dream,
long, nearly frozen
worm holes leading into another Oz,
where guitar strings are still used over
stretched swan necks in an absolutely
harmlessly musical manner,
and over microscopic black holes
too small to swallow any sound…

If I’d have to choose between
Jesus and Buddha,
I’ll have my granny,
because she always added to her
not even written down love
sweet plum dumplings with cinnamon,
and bought me a guitar out of her pension
against my dad’s will who said he’ll
smash it to my head,
and ice cream and custard cream
and suffered me drain half her coffee with
a dozen sugar cubes…

She died before finishing to fry
my life’s pile of pancakes,
so here I am, maple syrup
golden syrup, cinnamon,
brown sugar and all…
Still waiting,
immature grown-up with nowhere to go,
just realising Oz is not even a place,

just another granny’s absence where

Dorothy is barefoot,
frying lion steaks
in tin pans
over straw fires…