Latest Blog Post
The Rhythm of The Silence
The stage lights burn like white fire. My hands grip the drumsticks, slick with sweat, trembling as if they're the only parts of me still alive. The crowd roars, a faceless ocean of noise, but all I hear is the click of my sticks counting in: one, two, three, four.
This is the only place the thoughts stop. In the chaos of the beat, I don't have to remember the hollow-eyed ghost I've become. The Clyde who stares at hotel ceilings until sunrise, The Clyde who trusts no one, not even himself.
Beneath the glare, I'm not him. The crowd chants, but they don't know me. They see the leather, the sweat, the fury. They don't see the cracks.
On the edge of my sanity, that old, familiar voice starts to upspeak. "You could be this, if you stopped clinging to the wreckage," he whispers, the voice who doesn't slouch, who doesn't second-guess every breath. The voice of a statue carved from certanity. I hate him.
Yet, he lies. That man isn't real. He's the voice of a shadow of what I thought I wanted; a fortress, impenetrable. But I tried that once. Built walls so high even I couldn't climb out. All it left me was silence.
"Why do you keep running?" the voice mocks. "You're already hollow. What's left to lose?"
The truth they never see is, the stage isn't where I hide. It's where I'm real. The only place the numbness cracks, even for a second. Here, I'm not the ghost who drifts through airports and empty rooms. Here, I'm fire.
But fire dies.
When the last crash fades, sweat stings my eyes. The crowd screams, but it's already slipping away. The high, the purpose, the fleeting illusion of being whole. I'm waiting for the day the voice will be silenced for good. But not tonight.
In the silence, the thoughts return. Whispers of every failure, every wound. Tomorrow, there'll be another stage. Another crowd. Another three minutes where the music stitches me together.
It's not enough. But it's all I have.
Posted 3/15/2025, 11:00 AM