There’s a part of songwriting that no one teaches you.
It’s not rhyme or meter, not chord progressions or harmonies.
It’s the space between things—the pause between notes,
the breath between verses,
the silence after something true is said.
Lately, I’ve been thinking more about those spaces.
In music, we’re trained to fill. Fill the measure, fill the phrase, fill the silence.
But lately, I’ve been letting the silence stay. I’ve been learning to trust it.
Sometimes what you don’t say becomes the loudest part.
I’ve started leaving verses unfinished on purpose. Letting them hang in the air, unresolved.
Because life is like that too—unfinished. And maybe art doesn’t need to wrap things up so neatly.
Maybe it’s enough to just be honest.
There’s something haunting about distance.
Not just physical distance between people, but the emotional distance between two lines in a poem,
between who I was and who I’m becoming.
Sometimes the gap between “I’m fine” and the truth is miles wide.
That space is where my writing lives now.
Some of my favorite lyrics were born in those in-between places.
Written not in moments of clarity, but in fog.
There’s a strange kind of intimacy in not knowing exactly what you’re trying to say,
but writing it anyway.
That’s what this album is becoming—
a map of spaces.
Of things I started to say and didn’t.
Of melodies I followed but never tied up in a bow.
Of truths I’m still too afraid to sing directly.
And I think I’m okay with that.
Maybe you don’t need to resolve everything to be heard.
Maybe the most honest songs are the ones that sound a little like questions.
B.
