The paradox of being alone

I started by looking for bluelight filtering glasses. The serious, yellow ones that look like space goggles.

Google is just a list of amazon products, and I can't trust anything on it anymore. The internet has gone to the highest bidder. We've managed to ruin everything.

Look out folks - AI is about to make you feel as alone as I am. Best of luck. That's all that was afforded me, and that's the maximum I'm able to give you now, after thirty-some years of trying to pass. I have to sleep, and rest, and call myself back to me. Maybe in my sixties I'll be able to help. If I feel like it. My unsustainable generosity has found its expiration date, and it was yesterday. You can sample it if you'd like, but watch out for unpleasant mouthfeel.

My sadness has morphed, and just in time. It isn't despair and desperation and unyielding demand any longer. It is grief and goodbye and the loosening of fingers. It is true separation. It bites and stings but I'll take it any day, because it ebbs and moves and fades. Sticky sadness, I cannot abide. Slippery sadness is the best embrace.

I'm learning to articulate myself to myself without first filtering myself through the lens of neurotypicality. If I'm alone, so be it. I will know myself if no one else will. I will explore myself without apology. I will tend to my senses with doting attention. I will go places in my mind you can't even comprehend. When you don't understand me, I don't plan on helping you feel better about it, not anymore.

I can't afford to care like that anymore, and I can't afford to not keep myself company anymore.