I decided to finally write about some of the struggles I face as an independent artist. Tumblr has always been an incredible space for me to introduce my music to new listeners. So withy get if you come across this check out the links and enjoy the words ❤️
An open love letter to music.
Why is music feeling like watching every kid in the school yard get picked up before me.
My mind flashes back to that feeling seven year old me embraced knowing I would sit on the cold after school lunch tables until the final call. A late evening met with an early morning every day.
But music was supposed to be safe. When I found room to be above mediocre I clung to it for dear life. Remembering the words of the first teacher who saw me, truly saw me, and how she believed in my own lyricism even at its earliest stage.
I was so hungry when I was young. Staten Island could never offer the hug a queer black kid needed, but music could.
Home didn’t understand the sadness underneath budding teenage frustration, but music could.
I met music on a first date with no expectations but in queer fashion, maybe I fell too fast.
She took up my days. Multifaceted and engaging.
She became home and a safe space. She brought out the best in me. Introducing me to all of her friends and favorite places, putting me in rooms with people I’d be invisible to until I opened my mouth, hit the mic.
Maybe in my bliss I never stopped to consider this to be unrequited love.
We never needed all of affirmations when we first fell and yet now I find myself watching the single digit counts of comments or lack thereof.
I wonder if anyone is listening as I go to share another piece of myself to no avail.
Maybe I was sharper when I met her, yet now I watch as seemingly everyone around me makes it to those places I told her I’d take her- and even worse, I ration with if I never will.
There’s guilt as I see 29 stretching out to me, how lucky am I to meet another year of life- luck not offered to my cousin, yet how terrifying to know the projection the industry throws at me.
Even as I dodge, I become scorned thinking of how easy it seems for everyone else. The virality and colossal rise. Their talent not mine, their shine not mine, their wins not mine.
My days are spent helping future leaders secure their future, and yet I write and erase Plan B on what used to be my “anything is possible” journal.
Still, there is that hopeless romantic in me.
Wondering if maybe it wasn’t the right time, but the time may simply be on the way.
I know time waits for no one, but as I keep throwing my heart at the wall, I wonder where I will stick.
