Manic Frustration “If I do not write to empty my mind, I go mad.” ~Lord Byron

Caravaggio's St. Jerome

There's a space between the words. A brief moment where you breathe. And for a split second, everything is still. Everything is clear. I spend every day trying to capture that moment. To live in it. I haven't been successful just yet.

Sometimes I feel like my words are as light as bird bones. Like they'll slip from between my lips and float off into the sky without ever landing on the ears I wish they would. There have been too many times the words I speak aren't the words you hear.

Other times everything that spills from my mouth is lead-heavy and falls to the pavement below. Just stays there. This might be because I can't look people in the eyes. And that might be because I look away every time things fall apart around me.

Everything has been in some state of disarray for so long, I'm not sure what the words whole and complete really mean. I keep thinking I find the definitions written in dust, but the winds always blow the wrong way. I swear I hear them laugh every time.

All this will sound like the ravings of a lunatic to most. Some will get it. Some will know how it feels to be driving down the highway at 65mph wishing you weren't the only one in the car singing like a madman to your favorite tunes.  Some will know the feeling of an empty bar-stool next to you. How the curves of a bottle are the most familiar.

A friend asked me a few days ago, "Where do you want to be?" I didn't know how to answer. There are places I want to be that I don't think I'll ever see. There are places I want to be that I only get a taste of.

The space between words. That moment where I breathe and everything becomes still. Peaceful. The portion of the Lacrimosa dies illa in Mozart's requiem where that one angelic voice rises above the rest of the chorus as Mozart's last breath rolls forward from the composition. The space between light and dark of Caravaggio's work. That's where I want to be.