Every lyric I write is a piece of a moment, a memory, or a messy emotion I’ve carried for too long. My songs aren’t just rhymes over chords — they’re pages from my personal diary I decided to sing aloud.

Take “Echoes at Midnight,” for example. It was born on a sleepless night, sitting at my window with a half-finished cup of tea, watching the city breathe while I couldn’t. It wasn’t about love or heartbreak — it was about that quiet ache of not knowing where you’re headed, of feeling like you’re falling behind while the world rushes forward. I didn’t even plan to write that night, but the words just… happened.

Then there’s “Paper Boats,” a soft one that people say reminds them of their childhood. But for me, it came from a place of missing someone who’s still alive but no longer the same. Writing that song helped me understand that grief isn’t always about death — sometimes it’s about watching people drift away while standing still.

I’ve had friends ask me, “How do you write so emotionally?” The truth is, I don’t think about being emotional. I just try to be honest. If it stings a little while writing, I know it’s worth keeping.

Not every song has a deep, poetic backstory though. “Velvet Rain” started as a humming tune while shampooing my hair — no kidding. But later, it took shape as something dreamy, nostalgic, and weirdly romantic.

What I’ve realized is that songwriting is my way of translating life. When words fail in conversation, I turn to melodies and verses. That’s where I feel most understood — even if no one else ever hears the song.

So if you ever wondered what’s behind the lyrics, just know — it’s me, raw and real, tangled in metaphors, finding peace in the process.