Not long ago I came across a meme that said: “I listen to dead people.” It was meant to be darkly humorous—pointing out that many of the musicians we admire are no longer alive. But the more I thought about it, the less funny it seemed.
Because it’s true.
So many of the voices and hands that shaped my musical world are now silent: Jon Lord, Lemmy, Warrel Dane… and recently, Ozzy Osbourne too. Realizing this makes me painfully aware that I’ve already lived more than half of my life.
And yet, there’s another side to it. Their music is still here. What they created continues to resonate, to inspire, to move me. It has somehow survived them. That thought carries a strange comfort: if I try to fill my life with meaning, if I keep creating, giving, and shaping something of value, then maybe my work can also outlive me.
When I face the darkness and the silence, this becomes a fragile kind of hope—that my life was not meaningless, that I left something behind. It may not be much, but it is something.
And this thought ties directly into what I’m exploring with my next album: the question of whether there is an ultimate purpose to this fragile, fleeting human existence.