A moment in a rural charity shop becomes a meditation on memory, matter, and autistic resistance to forced “growing up.” On plushies, reverence, and what it means to keep what softens us—and what still remembers.
My fear....in adolescent years was what felt like the necessitated death of my creative mind and heart. It still feels stagnant. Under rubble. It comes through like weeds pushing through rocks, but it's not "whole" like it was as a child. As for softness, I collect blankets, and still find a familiar comfort from a stuffed bear 🧸. Thank you for relaying in words how that connect exists with sentiments and objects. Sometimes a focal point lends comfort that an uncertain world cannot.
My fear....in adolescent years was what felt like the necessitated death of my creative mind and heart. It still feels stagnant. Under rubble. It comes through like weeds pushing through rocks, but it's not "whole" like it was as a child. As for softness, I collect blankets, and still find a familiar comfort from a stuffed bear 🧸. Thank you for relaying in words how that connect exists with sentiments and objects. Sometimes a focal point lends comfort that an uncertain world cannot.