Stream of consciousness

Most of the time, I don’t even know what to write about. There’s so much happening—both around me and in the wider world—that it’s overwhelming. Constant sensory overload, with no idea what to do with all the information being thrown at me. I protect myself as much as I can, steering clear of the 24-hour newsfeed of war, crime, disaster, and panic. But that’s the catch-22. I try to stay informed, to join conversations about politics, to know what’s happening in places like Gaza and Ukraine—but I refuse to be dragged into the endless cycle of fear and death that mass media thrives on.

Throughout my adult life, my engagement with world affairs has gradually slipped away. In my early twenties I was very politically active. I went to protests. I was outraged about war, animal exploitation, vaccinations, obesity, pollution, the existence of Guantanamo Bay and other black sites, racism, poverty, tax-dodging billionaires, right-wing politics—you name it. I poured so much time and energy into researching how greed and excess were destroying the planet. How politicians would promise the world to voters, then once elected, turn their backs on the people who put them there and bow to corporations, giving them free rein to do as they wished. Exploit their workers with zero-hour contracts, unpaid labour, surveillance, and micromanagement. The list goes on.
I have often ruminated on the idea that it is an accepted fact that political parties never follow through with their manifestos once voted into power. I never understood why we all still participate in this endless game that will never benefit the majority. Isn’t the definition of madness doing the same thing over and again and expecting a different result?

In my twenties I felt anger. I wanted to change the world. I even wrote a song called *Fuck the World* that my old band played live, though it didn’t get a great reception. I regret that we never released it—I’d like to hear it again now. The older I’ve become, the more I’ve realised the biggest positive impact I can make on the world is by leading through example.

Trying to escape the matrix is fruitless. They’re always one step ahead. Avoid TV, Netflix, Amazon—fine. They’ll find another way in. Through your phone. Through social media. Through the very air you breathe. We’re all infected in ways we barely understand. Hooked on something—phones, alcohol, cigarettes, food, sex, drugs, gambling, social media, video games, buying useless shit. The list is endless. I have certainly experienced an unhealthy relationship with more than a few of them. Sometimes, I fantasise about cutting the cord entirely grabbing a tent, some supplies, and living a nomadic life. I see myself as somewhat of an outdoorsman however, deep down, I know it’s not realistic. Like everyone else, I get caught in the trap. Two years ago, I deleted my personal Instagram, smugly thinking, Ha! I’ve cracked it. They won’t get me. But now I run accounts for my band and my brand, and I still find myself scrolling like a dopamine zombie, chasing my next fix. And half the time, it ends up biting back.

The algorithm knows my weaknesses—skateboarding, football, running, streetwear, music—and drip-feeds me just enough to keep me hooked. I’ll watch someone treflip a twenty-stair and, for a split second, admire it… then my brain twists the knife: it starts talking to me in my own voice Maybe you could do a tre flip if you prioritised skateboarding over getting wasted as a teenager. Maybe you could run a decent time in the marathon if you weren’t so lazy (even though I run five times a week). Maybe your streetwear brand would be successful if your designs weren’t shit and derivative. Maybe your band would’ve been bigger if you could sing and your lyrics were good. Before I know it, I’m spiralling down a dark cul-de-sac of self-loathing, no clear way forward—just the next reel, waiting to drag me further in.

Deep down, I crave connection. I want to be accepted, included, part of something bigger than myself. Sometimes I imagine —waking up rich beyond my wildest dreams. Would it make me happy? Honestly, I don’t think so. Where would I live? What would I drive? Would I wear a Rolex, or maybe a Cartier watch? I can’t see it. The truth is, I like my small life. Sure, I’d like a little more money and a place of my own, but I already love what I do. I row a boat along the river and tell stories about history. It’s simple, but it’s perfect for me. Some people tell me it’s not not a proper job and honestly, that used to really get me down. I'm trying my best over here! I know now that ‘proper jobs’ are not meant for me. I don’t fit the mold I’m autistic, and that makes human interaction tough—I struggle to read body language and sometimes come across as blunt or even rude without meaning to. My job isn’t without challenges. I can get overwhelmed in noisy environments: people talking over me, kids screaming, groups having their own conversations while I’m trying to speak. That kind of sensory overload can really wear me down. Sometimes, at the end of the day, I retreat to my room and collapse into silence—my social battery completely drained. I used to think I’d always been this way. But that isn’t quite true. For years I relied on alcohol and drugs to quiet my mind, to numb the constant buzz of anxiety. Before my diagnosis, I never paused to ask why I felt so overwhelmed, so easily exhausted. I kept it hidden, worried people would see me as strange. Discovering I am autistic is the turning point—a revelation that finally made sense of everything.

In the end, I’ve made peace with the fact that I can’t change the world. But I can change myself. If I live by my values, practice what I preach, actively keep learning, and keep growing, then I’m part of the solution. And maybe, just maybe, that will inspire others to reflect on their own choices. I believe the world CAN be fairer, kinder, and more compassionate. That belief will always drive me, even if it never makes me rich or powerful. That was never my role here anyway. My mission is different. Perhaps it’s naïve, perhaps unrealistic—but I know there is an abundance of love and empathy in this world, and I’ll keep choosing to believe in it.