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#6 alive. 🎵

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Another grey morning in London. I wake up to the sound of rain tapping against the window, a slow, rhythmic beat like some melancholic intro to a song I haven’t written yet. It’s always rain, innit? Always the same sky, same streets. Feels like someone pressed repeat on my life and forgot to switch the track.

Most days, I drift between thoughts. I don’t even remember half the journeys I take, my body just moves through the streets while my head’s lost in some deep tunnel of thinking, trying to piece together who the f I am. That’s the thing, innit? Never belonged anywhere. Spent too long living out of suitcases, watching cities blur past from backstage and now I’m here, eighteen, technically an adult, but still feeling like I’ve got no proper home. Like I’m just renting space in my own life.

Been trying to shake it up, though. I mean, if life’s gonna be on repeat, I might as well change something, yeah? Started playing football on the sand, down by the shore where the wind cuts right through your jacket and makes your lungs burn. There’s something raw about it, the way the grains slip beneath your feet, the way you’ve gotta fight to stay upright. It’s different. And different’s good. I’ve even taken up running along the beach—me, running, imagine that. Never thought I’d be the type, but there’s something freeing about it, like I can outrun my own mind for a bit.

Maybe that’s why I’ve been writing more. The words come easier when I let myself move. New lyrics, new chords, all swimming in my head, waiting to be stitched together into something real. That’s where Brooke comes in. She’s got this way of pulling me back when I start spiralling, when the weight of everything gets too much. We sit for hours chasing some unspoken truth in the melodies. She says I’m brilliant, says I’ve got this madness that turns into something beautiful when I let it. I don’t know if I believe her, but I believe in her. And that’s enough.