His Story

…And so it goes that a boy made an album with a bunch of friends and incredible musicians in a studio in West London . He had a great time and didn't want to stop doing it, but the music was made and that was that. What does he do now? Recount? Tell others why he made the music? “Explain yourself boy!” they screamed. So he did (and is).

He spoke of writing stories and songs, of meeting and leaving friends along the way. He told of good people and bad people, of good sounds and bad companies and an exceptional devotion to hearing music emanate from the space around him. His passion was matched only by the love he had for the people who he played with, danced with, and cried out to the gods of joy with.

Then suddenly, seeping in quietly…

Hedonist!! Narcissist!! No-one deserves the happiness he found whispering stories, mumbling moments or crafting his gallery.

“What have you done child? Where is your sense of proportion? What about the others? What will they think?” The stories ended.

He wept silently. He knew nothing of loneliness, but indulged in it like he was a master. How could he live with himself having known such happiness, such light and beauty? What was left for him now that the music was over?

The mourning was deep. It was filled with loneliness and retrospect. He walked listlessly through his ideals, but too no avail. The moment was ended. The motion had steadied and he was left lulled and empty.

But wait…

“Hoorah Hoorah!” he cried. “I have it!” He picked up his solitude and stumbled across that vast, vacuous gulf of doubt with unwavering diligence. He arrived at the very thing that had so easily given him happiness, but so quickly reminded him that memories fade as certainly as sun shines.

He walked to his station with an outstretched finger, pointing with stern bravado. This was it… he could recapture those moments, those whispers and mumbles. He could revisit his joy.

He pressed play – and there it was.