Raining at nice clip, little wind.
All in all, a perfect day. As I walked to the hospital, listening to gurgling drains, the soft pelting on my jacket and cap, the squawking solitary birds. Watching the patterns of dot-dot-dot in every puddle and tracing semi-circles around the largest of them in my path.
There were few people outside and those with umbrellas, the rest looking outside high-up windows.
I wanted to walk all day in it.
For much of my life I'd always wondered what was wrong with me and been both ashamed and deathly afraid to find out. Never made much in the way of progress on anything and looked towards days like this for - at last - relaxation. I could at last attend. Be present.
It's extremely hard to explain the experience of functioning autism. Not because the hearer cannot comprehend it but because words fail and I've suffered so much it's better - so I've long thought - to be paranoid and quiet about it. It's exhausting. But words, art were always the means by which I had to express what I otherwise couldn't. To make order of thoughts which otherwise would hide, a white tangle of nervous anxiety, lurking behind corners and in mirrors.