#dj dark

“Everything flourishes; each returns to its root Returning to the root is called tranquility” — Tao Te Ching, verse 16 (Derek Lin translation)

There’s a particular ache in knowing something won’t last—and a sharper clarity in refusing to pretend it will. Both the nightclub and the Tao know this truth: forever is an illusion we dance to until we learn stillness.

September’s “Cry for You” pulses with that clarity. It’s not quite a breakup anthem in the traditional sense. It’s a refusal to wait, a refusal to believe in the myth of “forever.” The beat is urgent, but the voice is already walking away. “Forever never comes around” isn’t a lament—it’s a diagnosis.

Derek Lin’s translation of verse 16 in the Tao Te Ching offers a quieter echo. The sage watches the myriad things flourish and return. Not with grief, but with stillness. “Returning to the root is called tranquility.” The Tao doesn’t promise permanence. It names impermanence as the rhythm of existence. The self dissolves—not in danger, but in clarity.

Both texts refuse the fantasy of stasis. One through synth and defiance. The other through stillness and a refusal to struggle against the current.

Forever is a Lie

“Forever” is a seductive word. It promises safety, continuity, a future that won’t betray us. But it’s a lie. September names it plainly: “Life is now or never.” Not because she’s reckless, but because she’s done waiting for someone who won’t arrive. The Taoist sage would nod—not in agreement, but in recognition. “Knowing constancy is called clarity. Not knowing constancy, one recklessly causes trouble.”

To cling to “forever” is to forget the root. To forget the root is to flounder.

Stillness as Refusal

Stillness isn’t passivity. It’s not waiting in silence for someone to change. It’s the refusal to chase, the refusal to be swept away by the chaos of “myriad things.” In Taoist thought, stillness is the return to source. In “Cry For You,” it’s the moment after the chorus, when the beat drops out and the voice sharpens: “You’ll never see me again. So now who’s gonna cry for you.”

Tranquility Isn’t Comfort

There’s a sharpness to this kind of clarity. It doesn’t soothe. It severs. “The self is no more, without danger.” That’s not comfort—it’s edge. The kind of edge that says: I see what this is. I won’t pretend otherwise.

“Acceptance is impartiality. Impartiality is sovereign”

To accept impermanence is not to be numb. It’s to be sovereign. To stop begging for what won’t return. To stop mourning for someone who already left. To stop crying for a stability that never existed.