On a little world.

This is about distant TV’s, windblown trees and people who touch me.

It’s about viewing the world as something between a poisonous planet and a battleground, hell that never even occurs to other people, and the privilege of enjoying windows.

Mostly, is about suffering.

So, I want you to imagine a high-pitched, stuttering car alarm.

In fact, I want you to imagine 5 of them, flying about outside your window.
For a whole quarter of each year, these car alarms will fly around you all day.

If you put on music loud enough to hurt a bit after a while, you won’t hear them.

But when your track changes, you will. Hearing them interferes with your ability to think, and if you hear them too much, you will lose that capability for a minute or three of violent numbness.

Often, you will injure yourself or break things during this period.

The alarms only stop for a few precious hours at night. This is the only time you will experience any peace. You cannot destroy the alarms, and everyone but you likes them.

These alarms are called birds. Welcome to sensory hell.

Let me show you around.

You see that big, thrashing thing over there, that feels like holding a needle a millimetre away from your eye while it attempts to look in every direction? That’s a windblown tree.

The invisible spiders made of scribbles that are crawling all over your hand come from rubbing your hair. Get used to them, it needs washing every second or third day, or it gets greasy.

That’s an experience you want to avoid. There are lots of those here.

Being in a car is a minor one. It’s loud and can whip your hair into your eyes if the window is open, and it’s frequently bright, but the motion gives you an excuse to bang your head.

That makes everything better, even though it hurts. You won’t get to do it often,
However, cars can result in traffic jams, which are like 8 days of your normal suffering condensed into each hour.

Some of the things you’ll want to avoid will be people.

Some of them whistle, which is like a knife in your ear. Some of them chew, which is just plain awful. Some of them have loud voices, and some will even try to touch you.

In case you’re lucky enough to have avoided that, it feels like a fever-hot corpse gripping you. Even your own skin will feel too hot when you touch it sometimes.

Any large amount of people will also all talk at once. This is to be avoided at all costs. Nothing is worse than this.
Nothing.

So, you may be wondering what sex is like here.

Well, it goes like this. If you can find a way to fuck with little noise, no touching, and no uncomfortable materials, you can probably do it, as long as you can find a willing partner.

Oh, and of course you have to trust them not to torture you.

Because it’s very easy for other people to do that, intentionally or unintentionally.
If somebody wants to, unless you can get away from them, they can.

You see, those people outside of here? They hardly ever really believe in this place.
This is particularly evident during childhood, where you have very little freedom to say, write or gesture no to anyone torturing you.

You will probably develop numerous compulsions, scars and the like if you grow up here. You must do something to cope, after all. And you must react to what is done to you.

Maybe you’ll be like me. I never listen to music that’s audible to anyone in my vicinity, or chew in front of anyone. Those were the main things that tortured me, you see.

And I have tiny, endlessly moving, constantly changing, near-colourless shapes on my vision, because I use to grind my knees into my eye sockets and watch the resulting lightshow to cope.

For hours on end. Hours and hours. Every day.
I want you to picture a little child doing that. Some people don’t believe in that child, but cie believes in them.

Those shapes are there even when I close my eyes, and on days where the motion overstimulates me, I want to hunch into a little ball and crunch my thumbs into my eyes for blessed, motion-free blackness.

Oh, and I have scars. Lots of scars. Raised white lines, reddish-pink discolourations, purple lines. I don’t even know how I got most of them.

People never expect the scars when they choose between scars and consideration of this little world right here.

They seem to expect that child grinding hir knees into hir closed eyes to just vanish, or perhaps they don’t care. Retroactive abortion, april fools, no harm no foul!

Those don’t really exist here.

The scars do.

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About chassisbird

Chassisbird is autistic, trans, a survivor of abuse, possibly gray-asexual, queer, polyromantic and very into D/s. It uses it/hir pronouns, tends towards apathy and would like to resemble a spider much more closely.
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