Karl Smink
- Introduction: Text Beyond the Page
In an era where storytelling is expanding beyond paper and pixels into immersive experiences, we are redefining what it means to write, to read, and to connect. But no matter the medium—text, xR, or otherwise—stories remain vessels for truth. He Still Stands, my upcoming novel, is one such vessel. It is a story about light, conviction, and loneliness—but more than that, it is a neurodivergent lens on a world that too often asks us to bend in ways we are simply not capable of.
This article explores the origins, structure, and thematic undercurrents of He Still Stands, and how it functions as a multi-layered “text” that transcends just prose—it is also a lived experience; a memoir about neurodivergent identity.

- Why I Wrote It
Like many on the autism spectrum, I have often felt out of place in a world that prizes adaptability, compromise, and charisma over sincerity, conviction, and clarity. My moral compass doesn’t bend easily, and I’ve frequently found myself at odds with systems and people who expect it to. This book was born out of that friction.
He Still Stands began as a personal exploration of the cost of holding onto ideals in a world that weaponizes flexibility. But it grew into something broader—a commentary on justice, identity, and how we shape ourselves (or don’t) to survive. Writing it helped me express my own experiences with autism: the frustration of being misunderstood, and the quiet grief of hurting people despite trying to help them.
It’s also an apology. Parts of Luna’s arc reflect the unintended harm I’ve caused in trying to protect people who didn’t want protection. Daelon, the protagonist, is the part of me that kept trying, long after it was wise to do so.

- Mythmaking for the Marginalized
At its core, He Still Stands is a myth. It borrows from religious epics, fantasy, and broken faith narratives. But unlike traditional fantasy heroes, Daelon’s journey is not one of triumph, but of persistence without reward. He doesn’t get the girl, he doesn’t save the world, and he doesn’t slay the dragon. His only victory is that, at the end, he still stands.
The book is populated with characters who each embody a different relationship to conviction:
Daelon is rigid morality incarnate—unable to bend, unwilling to abandon his principles, even as they destroy him. As the world changes, the city’s people and culture become more and more hostile towards his people’s existence.
Eryndra is the pragmatist who burns out after thankless years bearing the weight of everyone else’s shortcomings.
Kirtana is the quiet voice of reason, civility, and self expression that is silenced by xenophobic fearmongering.
Together, they show how different people respond to the dissonance between the world as it is, and as they think it should be.

- Aurelian Vale: The Antagonist of Adaptability
The true antagonist of the story isn’t a tyrant or demon—it’s a man who represents the temptation to become what the world wants, no matter the cost to your soul. He is charismatic, persuasive, and effective. He gets results. But in doing so, he abandons truth, justice, and integrity.
Vale is the societal mask—the smile you’re told to wear, the compromise you’re expected to make, the person that would kill to “succeed.” He is the person I was told to become. For someone with autism, he is both an impossibility and an ever-present threat.

- Luna: The Loved and the Lost
Luna is not me. She is everyone I’ve tried to save. She is composed of real people—friends and family—who I smothered with my good intentions. Her arc is the pain of trying to stand on her own, and overcome her own trauma, without letting someone else carry her. And Daelon, for all his light, becomes another person she must flee from.
Her story is a tragedy. But it’s also a call for autonomy—for understanding that helping someone doesn’t mean rescuing them.

- Text as Mask and Mirror
One of the core metaphors in He Still Stands are the wrappings worn by the Ethereals. These long, linen bindings, composed of scripture and poetry, cover their bodies and allow them to be seen without blinding people. These wrappings serve as a metaphor for autistic masking: the exhausting, unnatural act of concealing one’s true self to avoid scrutiny or rejection.
To many neurodivergent people, masking is survival. But it is also erasure. Like the wrappings, it may look noble—self-sacrificial, even—but it is often a quiet violence done to oneself, reinforced by the expectations of others.
In contrast, Luna is raw, reactive, and struggling to survive. Daelon is drawn to her not out of pity, but because he sees her difference, and he knows how painful that is. He’s acting out the role of the helper, the protector, to fulfill a moral identity. But she doesn’t want to be saved. She wants agency, not guardianship. Luna doesn’t reject Daelon’s help because she’s ungrateful—she rejects it because it denies her autonomy. And Daelon’s autistic wiring can’t interpret that subtle signal. He believes rejection of help is rejection of him.
The Kingdom’s capital city of Rarek—once a sanctuary of asceticism and tradition for the Ethereals—undergoes a cultural shift that reflects modern America in the 2020s. A place that once aspired to moral ideals, now gripped by populism, performative outrage, and the manipulation of public feeling. Where “truth” becomes whatever stirs a crowd, and religion is just another form of branding. In this way, Rarek becomes a cautionary setting, showing what happens when a community trades integrity for influence.
Vale represents the ultimate antagonist for an autistic moralist: someone who thrives not by being right, but by being effective. His moral code is “whatever works”. He is charm over substance. Utility over truth. In a world shifting toward outrage-based tribalism (like modern America), Vale’s flexibility becomes power. He wins, not because he’s better, but because he’s compatible with the system as it is.
In that way, He Still Stands becomes a fable about the slow death of virtue—and the quiet suffering of those who cannot adapt. Not because they are unwilling, but because they are constitutionally incapable.
- What the Future of Text Means to Me
For someone like me, whose relationship with words has always been a lifeline, text is more than communication. It is identity. It is structure. It is clarity in a chaotic world.
Expanding text into xR is not just a technological shift—it’s a chance to make stories experiential. To let readers feel what it’s like to carry another’s burdens. To stand in the ashes of someone else’s failure, and learn a little bit about what it’s like to be them.
From the perspective of neurodivergent authorship, this shift is even more powerful. It allows us to share the weight of being, to create environments where our internal experiences—often dismissed or misunderstood—can be seen, heard, and felt.

- Final Words
He Still Stands is a book about people who break, who try, and who fail—beautifully, earnestly, irrevocably. It is a story for anyone who has ever felt like they were too much, or not enough, or just wrong for the world around them.
And in that sense, it is my contribution to the future of text: one voice among many, adding a new perspective to the myriad.