I’m just laying in bed tonight as I write this. I’m in one of my moods where I’m honestly not upset about anything, yet if you were to take a guess as to how I’m feeling, you’d probably think I was about to murder someone. I get into these ruts sometimes where everything, literally everything is fine, but I’m just tired or stressed beyond belief for no apparent reason. I’d like to sit down and enjoy something, anything, but my heart skips a beat and sinks into my stomach anytime I begin to relax.

In these moments I relish loneliness. It’s one of the few things that allows me to control the only thing I can, me. This right here helps too; one of only a couple things that does. Within the process of writing, I find the loneliness I lovingly dread. My mind is a blank screen with words and pictures that calm me, flashing and shining through the darkness. Each flash an eternity of memories so eager to be put to paper, yet too skittish to allow me to. Any simple sound can pull me out of this world and back into reality. Losing the life of the flash on the screen, leaving me empty with only a glimmer of what could have been.

Maybe someone, some day will understand. Perhaps I’ll find another whom lives in a welcome insanity, awaiting the next plunge into their own personal loneliness. A place where vulnerability and inspiration flatter each other like lovers. I’ll stare into their eyes and watch their blank screen play the premier only they can see. I won’t say a word; I’ll just watch as they reverse engineer this screenplay into the script of their life. And as the curtains close and the light returns, I’ll be there so eager for my own personal encore.

Maybe…