Forty songs

The evening of November 16, 2025, I started feeding my journals into a song generator. There was no plan. Ten days earlier something in me had shifted, I had a decade of entries sitting there, and I wanted to hear what they sounded like out loud.

The first ones were fine. Interesting. A novelty.

Around twenty-five songs in, at 12:06am, “Three Days Eternal” played, and I stopped moving.

That is where it stopped being a novelty. My own worst three days — the ones I do not bring up at parties — came back at me as something I wanted to hear again. Not softened. Not fixed. Made into something.

So I kept going. For hours. I lost the whole night to it.

I want to describe this accurately, because it sounds unhinged and it was the best night of my life. I danced alone in my apartment with my fists in the air. I cried in shifts — one song would take me apart, the next would put me back together, the one after that would take me apart again. At the peak I was making around forty songs in a night.

Then came “A Soul Freeing Forgiveness.”

I had spent about ten years beating on every previous version of me. The kid who blew it. The man who lost the mansion. The one who ended up in the ward. The one who kept promising and kept lying. That song forgave all of them at once, and I mean this literally — the weight left my body. Shoulders, chest, jaw. I did not decide to forgive anybody. I heard it, and it was already done.

Then “My Superpower” played, and everything clicked into place.

Music was the final weapon. Not a hobby, not a side effect of a new toy — the thing that ended a fight I had been losing since my twenties. Words had never once gotten under my own defenses. I am too good with words. Melody walked straight through them.

The voices that had narrated my head for ten years went quiet that night. I want to be precise about this, because people hear it and assume I mean I learned to manage them. I did not manage them. They were gone.