They say I’m quiet. But inside, I’m screaming.Lights talk to me, clothes itch like fire, and eye contact feels like putting a knife into my liver.
My memory feels sharp like crystal, often I remember things from my childhood, and my family doubt and say: “you shouldn’t remember that!!”.
I can feel patterns everywhere, although sometimes life is messy, and not everything is done by purpose, but I could see them like I can see my words before I type them. They were already there, waiting.
Sometimes they think I’m not listening. I hear everything, but I stay quiet, I have to process it before responding. I even can hear the sound of paper scratching over the other when you flip it, the ticking of clock, they won’t shut up, and when I’m very nervous I hear the sound of breathing mine, and others.
I often see people, people that are supposed to live only in imagination, but I see them, I can interact with them, hear them. My silence is full of images, shapes, obsessions.
You maybe don’t hear me, but I’m louder than you’ll ever know.