the space between

TWO SINS (2026) Francisco Marquez as Liam Green

I haven’t written here in a while…

Not because I ran out of things to say.

More because I ran out of clean sentences.

Life has a way of pulling language out of you when you’re busy surviving. You start communicating in logistics. In schedules.

In “I’ll get to that later.” And later keeps moving farther and farther away from you.

What I’ve been living in lately is the space between things.

Not the moment of arrival. Not the aftermath you can wrap in a lesson.

The middle. The stretch. The long inhale where nothing is resolved yet.

It’s an uncomfortable place.

There’s no headline for it.

We’re taught to talk about the wins, or the collapses. The before-and-after photos. The big announcements. The triumphant comeback posts. But no one really teaches you how to exist publicly while you’re still… becoming again.

Especially as an artist. Especially as a man. Especially when you’ve been doing this long enough to know that momentum is fragile and timing is cruel and talent alone doesn’t keep the lights on.

I’ve been here before. I know the terrain.

There’s the quiet panic of checking accounts.

The humbling math of bills.

The internal argument between “stay disciplined” and “just get through today.”

There’s also the strange clarity that shows up when the noise drops out.

When you’re not performing for anyone.

When there’s no algorithm to feed.

When your value isn’t being externally confirmed in real time.

There were a few moments where walking away would’ve been cleaner. It just never felt honest.

You start asking better questions, more specific questions.

Not “How do I get back on track?”

But “Whose track was I even on?”

I’ve spent years chasing alignment—between the work I do, the roles I play, the stories I tell, and the person I am when no one’s watching. Sometimes it clicks perfectly. Sometimes it splinters. Sometimes it disappears into silence, leaving you to wonder if it was ever real—like a character realizing the mirage in the desert was never there at all.

But every now and then, something happens that reminds you the work didn’t disappear just because the world went silent.

A room.
A screen.
A story unfolding exactly the way it was meant to.

No announcements. No rollout. No noise. Just the quiet confirmation that something you gave yourself to is alive now

—separate from you.

A character built from instinct, discipline, and years of collected scars, finally standing on its own.

soon to be out in film festivals around the world.

Sometimes that confirmation comes instantly. Other times, it doesn’t—like when auditions you sent, your best work, vanish into the digital void of a casting inbox, never even watched. It’s a reminder that the industry isn’t always about merit; it’s about persistence, timing, and showing up anyway.

I’ve been thinking a lot about patience—not the passive kind, but the active, disciplined version. The kind where you still show up. Still train. Still write. Still take care of your body and your mind even when there’s no immediate reward

- and no sign that one is coming.

Especially then.

Because this industry doesn’t just test your talent. It tests your nervous system. Your self-worth.

Your ability to sit in uncertainty without abandoning yourself.

And if I’m being honest, that’s the real work I’ve been doing.

Learning how not to disappear when everything slows down to a crawl.

Learning how not to lose myself in the highs—whenever they arrive.

Learning how to stay human inside a machine that prefers products.

There’s a myth that artists are supposed to suffer for their work. I don’t buy that anymore. But I do believe we’re supposed to feel it. All of it. The doubt. The waiting. The moments where you wonder if you’re being foolish for still wanting this life.

And then—annoyingly—you realize you still do.

Not because it’s easy.

Not because it’s glamorous.

But because it makes you feel awake.

I’ve been rebuilding quietly. Structurally. Intentionally.

Reclaiming my voice in places where I let it atrophy.

Reconnecting with why I started telling stories in the first place—not for visibility, but for connection.

This blog is part of that.

Not a comeback.

Not a manifesto.

Just a signal flare that says: I’m here. I’m paying attention. I’m still in the middle of it.

If you’re reading this and you’re also in between chapters—between jobs, between identities, between versions of yourself—know this: the pause is not a failure. The silence is not erasure. The work you’ve done still counts, even when it’s not being applauded -

or even seen.

Especially then.

I don’t know exactly what the next thing looks like yet.

But I know I’m moving toward it honestly — maybe more honestly than I ever have.

And for now, that’s enough.

“Not everything that is faced can be changed,

but nothing can be changed until it is faced.”

- James Baldwin

More soon.

— Francisco