Große Wasser

An einem großen Wasser fühlt man sich freier als sonst, einfach nur, weil das große Wasser da ist. Das große Wasser verscheucht die ewigen kleinen Gedanken und das Drandenken an dies und das und sagt einem, dass man einmal still und ruhig werden soll. Man wird plötzlich ganz "spiegelglatt", ich meine im Innern. Und man atmet ganz ruhig und spürt die Luft vom Wasser her, wie sie das Gesicht kühlt und dafür sorgt, dass die Sonne sich einbrennen kann in das Gesicht. 

Ortheil, Die Berlinreise, p 109 (Luchterhand 2014)

'that distant, watery past'

We just want to go back. To the distant, distant past. To a primeval era, in fact, before human beings existed. All people with autism feel the same about this one, I reckon. Aquatic life-forms came into being and evolved, but why did they then have to emerge onto dry land, and turn into human beings who chose to lead lives ruled by time? These are real mysteries to me.

In the water it's so quiet and I'm so free and happy there. Nobody hassles us in the water, and it's as if we've got all the time in the world. Whether we stay in one place or whether we're swimming about, when we're in the water we can really be at one with the pulse of time. Outside of the water there's always too much stimulation for our eyes and our ears, and it's impossible for us to guess how long one second is or how long an hour takes.

People with autism have no freedom. The reason is that we are a different kind of human, born with primeval senses. We are outside the normal flow of time, we can't express ourselves, and our bodies are hurtling us through life. If only we could go back to that distant, distant, watery past - then we'd all be able to live as contentedly and as freely as you lot!
Naoki Higashida, The Reason I Jump: one boy's voice from the silence of autism, Q39 p104-105 (Sceptre 2014), translated by David Mitchell & Keiko Yoshida

a sea of words

Spoken language is a blue sea. Everyone else is swimming, diving and frolicking freely, while I'm alone, stuck in a tiny boat, swayed from side to side. Rushing towards and around me are waves of sound. Sometimes the swaying is gentle. Sometimes I'm thrown about and I have to grip the boat with all my strength. If I'm thrown over board I'll drown - a prospect so disturbing, so laden with despair, it can devour me. At other times, however, even if I can't swim in the water, I gaze at the play of light on the surface, delight at being afloat on it, trail my hands and feet in the sea, and dream of jumping in with everyone else. When I'm working on my alphabet grid or my computer, I feel as if someone's cast a magic spell and turned me into a dolphin. I dive down deep - then shoot back up, break the surface and surprise all the swimmers. The process can feel so free, so effortless, that I almost forget I was ever stuck in that boat.
Naoki Higashida, Fall down 7 times get up 8, a young man's voice from the silence of autism, p 97-98 (Sceptre 2017), translated by David Mitchell & Keiko Yoshida