Today wasn't bad until just a short time ago. No day is without its struggles with madness. I'm through asking for miracles and portents. The end is not in sight; no divine authority intervenes. I'm left with demons not of my own choosing, but from my own distorted imagination.
Questions abound. From a simple "why?" to a more complicated "how do I deal with this?," my questions never seem answered. For now, the foremost question in my head is "when am I wanted?" It seems to me that once a person who knows my writing gets close to me, and sees the rest that I can't communicate with my pen, the reaction is always distance or flight. The few that know me first by my face or my voice never quite see the writing as a match.
Some might protest, but ask those who know me best. They will tell you I'm a nice guy, but I'm weird, I'm arrogant, I can't shut up, I'm sad too much, I repeat myself (again and again and again). They'll tell you I can be a good friend, but I don't understand anything about anything else; on that they are probably right. Those of you who know me by my pen would balk away from me face-to-face. Those who know me by my face, never seem to understand my pen. I raise my pennant as a poet, and watch it taken down as a person. I can write my way to hell and back, but I can't drive more than five miles away from my house.
I just don't see the upside to continuing like this. I am alone; if I am not, it seems that way. Verses flow to a wide audience and are welcomed. However, when I stop presenting the poetry as itself, and try to show Thomas the person in conversation or correspondence, I lose the ear, eyes, and understanding of all audiences. It leaves me back at the beginning: when am I wanted? Not in my verses, not in my blog, not in my writing, when is Thomas Jackson wanted? I ask those who know the poet and the person, when was the last time you thought to yourself I miss that guy, where is he when I need him? Blaise Pascal and I will play dice in the meantime.