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Two years of empty pages, wasted studio hours, and producers trying to convince me that maybe I needed a break or maybe a fucking exorcism. Two years of forcing words onto paper and hating every last one of them.

And now?

Now my brain decides to wake the fuck up all because of an infuriating blonde with a smart mouth.

I grab my phone.

The lyrics are already slipping away, so I start typing.

Fast.

Heart made of ice.

I pause.

Winter on her skin.

Another line comes.

Then another.

Fragments. Images. Half-formed thoughts.

Messy as hell, but fucking pulsing with live.

For the first time in years, I’m not dragging words out of myself like I’m trying to pull a corpse from the grave.

No. They’re coming on their own.

I keep typing.

My thumbs move faster as the next lines begin to take shape, one thought feeding the next. I don’t know what the song is about yet, or where it’s going, but I can feel it building.

A melody starts somewhere in the back of my mind.

Then another phrase hits.

I type it before I lose it.

Fuck.

It’s happening.

The spark.

The first flicker of something bigger.

That moment when a song stops being a collection of words and starts becoming something with a pulse.

I’ve missed this.

God, I’ve missed this shit.

For months, I’ve sat in studios staring at blank screens while everyone around me pretended not to worry. I’ve tried new producers, new beats, new writing routines. I’ve worked until dawn and thrown every fucking thing away.

Nothing felt real and now, after all that time, the music is back.

Not because I forced it.