Page 63 of Tilly in Technicolor
With shaky fingers, I hitpublish.There. It’s out.
Writing feels like a paradox. I simultaneously want the world to absorb my words and am horrified at the idea of literally anyone seeing them. I want to be known but not judged. I’ve liked writing little blurbs for colors on Mona’s website, but it isn’t the same. It isn’t pieces ofmein those words.
My blog feels like the safest place to put myself out there. It exists, in the Wild West of the internet, but I don’t do anything to direct people to it. It’s not so much putting myself out there as poking my head through the door. Actually, it’s probably more than my head at this point. I’ve seen a pretty substantial spike in my Babble engagement and followers, which is simultaneously thrilling and terrifying.
I don’t exactly understandwhypeople care about what I have to say, but connecting and messaging with other neurodiverse people on the app has been one of the most validating experiences of my life. I finally understand what Ollie meant when he said that talking to people on the internet allows him to feel closer to others than actually being in their presence.
I try to dredge up self-control, but I’m me, so I have none, and I start refreshing the analytics page of the post. I hope someone’s read it. I hope no one’s read it. I hope… damn. No views. How does my untagged, non-monetized, personal blog not have four billion views within twelve seconds of me posting something?
I hitrefresh.
Oh. Oh shit. It says two people have clicked. Okay. Wow. Oh my God. Cool. What are they thinking? Probably that it’s dumb and they hate it.
I hitrefreshagain. I want another rush of dopamine like I got when that number changed from zero.
Wait. No. Not doing this.
I slam my laptop shut before the page finishes loading. This has “runaway brain train” written all over it. This obsessive need to click on something with the desperate hope for a virtual reward. The gut-punch of disappointment when therearen’t any new likes. Or views. Or comments. That odd, expansive feeling of being so alone in a world of constant connection.
I wrote that post for me. Only me. And it feltgood.I’m going to protect that, damn it. I do not need external validation on something that brings me joy. Except for the times I desperately do… but this summer is all about growth et cetera, et cetera.
I push up from the table, gathering my things and shoving them in my backpack. I leave the café and start walking down the street, popping in my earbuds and letting music cascade down my body. This is the kind of noise I like. It’s concentrated and makes sense and I know to expect it. It’s so different from the random, nails-on-a-chalkboard noises of crowded areas.
There’s something so freeing about being in a new place. Being there alone. I am only in charge of myself. I can eat what I want. Go where I want. I don’t have to worry about if someone else is having a good time. If they’re bored. If my constant stops to look at the different things that hook my sticky brain are annoying them. I can be totally, utterly, me.
I melt into Stockholm’s streets as I keep walking, every step etching a love note into the cobblestones.Tilly Twomley was here and, God, did she have a good time.
After a few blocks, I’m in Gamla stan, Stockholm’s old town. The tourist traffic is heavier here, but I get why. The buildings are like Technicolor gingerbread houses, tall and thin and pressed tightly together. The edges are swooped in some places, sharp in others, the happy heights smiling down on the narrow streets.
My attention snags on a window display, and I scuttle over to the glass like a moth to a flame.
The storefront display is stacked top to bottom with shoes.
Not just any shoes.
Clogs.
I go ahead and let myself in.
The smell of leather and wood wraps around me like a hug, and I pull out my earbuds, taking in the gentle quietness of the shop.
All my senses hum and vibrate at a happy frequency as I drag my fingers along buckles and clasps while I weave through the shop. I pick up a hundred different shoes, studying them from all angles, admiring the intricacies of the different designs. A pair of wooden wedges with butter-soft leather and small carvings of leaves tempts me to reach for my wallet, but I also know the four-inch heels would likely lead to my demise, and, with as much melodrama as possible, I set them back in their spot on the shelf.
But then I see something that makes my eyes turn into giant hearts.
Bright. Red. Wooden. Clogs.
I approach them slowly like they’re a skittish animal about to run away. I drag a reverent finger over the intricate painting on the tops. It’s a landscape. Bushels of flowers tucked into a patch of green grass, all set against a perfect blue sky and a windmill in the distance.
I immediately think of Oliver. I wonder what color he’d find in some corner of the scene. What he’d say about the balance. Or the feelings. Or the way his eyes, sharp and intense and wonderfully deep, would roam over and over these bright red shoes.
I snatch them up and head to the register.
“Hej hej!” the older woman behind the counter says to me, ringing up the shoes.
“Hej!” I say back in greeting. “I love the shoes,” I add.
“They are pretty, aren’t they?” she says, turning them from side to side.
