2015-01-18

tito: Picture of the main character from the game ICO. (Default)
2015-01-18 04:00 pm

Solipsism.

I am so much more than this. I am more than what I write about.

Just finished my marathon watching of Strip Search, a webcomic reality TV show that Penny Arcade put on a couple years ago. Still love the material, and certain parts of it elicits genuine laughter from me - enough to pull me out from my depressive episodes.

One thing about my mind is that it never turns off. It's a trait that's shared with a character I play online. Part of me envies that trait in others - the ability to just stop thinking critically, switch off and enjoy stupid fun for its own sake. But I am forever an analyst - both of myself and of the content I watch. So then, my thoughts:

I'm not an artist, so the finer technical points of their craft are lost on me, but it's still such a creative boost to see people like myself - creators - doing fully what they want, what they do best, what they love to do - and in that brutal environment, flourishing. Or even just enjoying the ride to its respective ends, their journey given its snapshot, their fifteen minutes. In a way it's a simulation of death - the winners of the competitive challenges sentencing their inmates to trial by fire, with only one winner. It's as much a simulation of the process of death, with all it entails, as anything one can come up with.

For someone who's scared of living, scared of expressing himself in any way that pleases him, it's cathartic to see others going through that simulation - of failure, of acceptance, release, and joy for what they had.

In less than two hours, I'm going to have to perform. I don't have a script. I may as well make it up as I go along. But I may create a framework, and create the first half and improvise the rest. Might be okay, especially if I involve the audience.

Those people. Those autistic people at Author's with Autism who think I have it together, who have no idea about me. I'm charismatic and likeable enough and good with people enough to hide my baggage. Not from people who know me, obviously, not from the people I live with, but the mask I've crafted for myself is good enough to withstand public scrutiny. It's the kind of mask that suffocates your ability to express how fucked up you are - you're unable to say it without a well-meaning smile.

I have to publish something. (No, I don't have to, but--) I have to do it so I can say I have something and that I'm a writer, damn it, I can make something on time, by a deadline. (Augh deadlines.) The Autism's Own Journal (augh, pandering to my own people, augh) has a deadline of January 31st, so that means it might be read by... someone. More of my own people? Goddamnit, I don't want that kind of feedback. I spend so much of my time analyzing other people and the content they create, I want someone to analyze and put their minds to me. But the best I can hope for is something tepid like: "You're a really insightful person." Maybe a nice, poignant three-syllable adjective is the most I can hope for from my audience before they go back to their own navel-gazing fixations.

Look at me, the shit I'm talking about. (Look at me, look at me.) But why not? At least I've got anonymity, still. (Despite publishing this with my username as my given name. That won't bite me in the ass someday, no sir.)