It’s that time of year again. July 3rd, the day Jim Morrison died. He’s been gone 43 years now, and though I never knew him, it seems crazy it’s been that long. Jim Morrison is without a doubt my hero. He wasn’t some drunken, inconsiderate asshole. (At least, not all the time.) He was kind, intelligent, funny, unmaterialistic, articulate, immensely talented. A gentleman, a genius, a frontman, a shaman, a true American poet. He knew the truth and held the weight of the world on his shoulders. Jim was very perceptive, but he had little regard for consequences, even when his own life was at stake. He didn’t care for boundaries and loved testing them at all costs. His personality embodied the true meaning of “all or nothing.” He never went half way, he went all out. Too often, the true good in him, all of his remarkable traits, were shoved aside in the shadow of his bad side, the side his demons controlled. Jim battled demons his entire life. Some would argue true suffering brings art, and maybe it does. Jim’s art, poetry, lyrics will forever speak to me in a way uniquely to only him. I will never get over the beauty of him. He inspired me to be myself, even if he did live in another time. I would give anything to have met him at least once. He can paint an image with vivid force with ease. His voice is hypnotizing whether you agree it’s the most gifted singing voice or not; he was undoubtedly surreal in how he presented his words. The love he held for his poetry makes me smile and I feel he could’ve gone on to written even more brilliantly than he already had. It hurts my heart to think that all of his potential died along with him, but perhaps carrying so much insight grew to be too much of a burden. The unpredictable complexity of Jim remains a huge mystery. I hope wherever he is now, he’s reached the peace he always aimed for and needed in life. Rest in peace, Jim. You’ll always remain in my heart when I need someone.
I know I am forgetting so much, but I think you get my point.