Stream of Consciousness // 11.14.2023

Blah, blah and blah.

It is amazing how I can go on blabbering for paragraphs and in essence feel as if I've said nothing at all.

This is all about me and I'll make it about me enough to where if you should refuse to make it about you then I've made it enough about me for the both of us. Don't make me feel bad like the others. I'm tired of being judged by the morally superior, those who play pretend like they are unconditionally whole as they are, despite admitting to their flaws, if they even do that. “Jackson, I’m worried about you,” they’ll say. They’re usually projecting, trust me. I claim to be neither lost nor found, I am simply here. That frustrates a few people for some reason. People that seem to actually care, even if it’s only for a moment. Otherwise no one cares about me or you and I find that comforting.

 I bask in sadness because I can, not because I find comfort in it. It’s an old friend of mine, sometimes we hang out with happiness at the same time. It is for the most part neither a good time nor a bad time, otherwise I’d say it’s mostly good with a healthy mix of evil stirred in like yin and yang. That’s my mind, baby. I find that this makes sense to some people, is incredible to others, but most people just repeat it back to me in the way that they interpreted it and it usually sounds a bit different. I try to get into people’s minds. I find it interesting. Helps me understand mine more, like you’re all a mirror as I try to be for you through all of this. I don’t know if that’s selfish or not. I mean, this whole thing is quite selfish. That all being said, I give genuine thanks to those of you who give a fuck about me or anybody worth giving a fuck about. We should give more fucks towards other people and less fucks towards trying to be someone we ourselves are not. How many of us are presenting a constructed version of met expectations and a product of years of other people telling us to be better or do something that’ll make you more money or earn you more status? Maybe it’s not a bad idea to learn how to do so in order to pay your bills and keep up with your family if that’s what it takes, but make sure it hasn’t caused you to forget who you really are or what you really love. 

There are those who view me and what I do through a lens of love that is put over the top of any rational judgements. Nice enough to not say anything critical at all towards my work but sometimes coming across sounding like a parent admiring their child’s drawing from school. I couldn’t care less either way, I will not decide if I know what I am doing or not so I will not try to convince you of it either. To get any reaction at all is good enough for me at this point. I give a fuck about it because I’ve got this compulsion to write that comes from deep within and once I begin it manifests itself in all sorts of ways; sometimes it’s hard to stop and sometimes I overexplain. I’m a walking recycling bin and a walking cliche. My favorite colors are the lack therof: black and white. I express all the other colors in the way that I write. I’m simply hard to describe.

Some women have tried to love me. I often misread situations or don’t read them at all and can get carried away with my words and actions and occasionally cross lines without realizing it. I often cling on fast and desperately or not at all. No sense in apologizing after the fact because not only is it no longer my place to do so nor would they owe me any pointers but there won’t be a bridge left to carry that apology on anyways. I’ll probably still try to find a way to say hello every once and awhile, even if I broke your heart or even if we never loved at all.

It seems like most of the couples I know found True Love by accident. How is it that in this life someone meets someone else so special that you get to share a Life with them. Imagine not having that. But so many don’t because it’s like stumbling upon a Message in a Bottle while walking on the beach. Inside is a letter from the Love of Your Life. I’ve honestly found the Bottle a few times, but I’ve fumbled it each time back into the ocean, trying too eagerly to finger out the contents inside. I have to keep walking but I’m not looking for bottles or for true love anymore. I’ve decided that life is enough. If it comes my way again, then I’ll certainly try and take it. After all, life comes and goes in waves.

• j.