Failure in music doesn’t always mean writing something unworthy. More often, it feels like silence. Not the silence between notes, but the silence after you’ve shared them with the world.
When I first started posting on Threads, my words reached thousands of eyes each day. Now, they reach only a few dozen. What changed? Perhaps the platform, perhaps the algorithms – or perhaps nothing at all. The truth is, musicians rarely know who is really listening. Numbers and impressions don’t tell you whether someone has carried your song into their night, or let it slip past without a thought.
And so, the hardest part isn’t rejection – it’s uncertainty. You play into the void, and the void offers no answer.
Yet, in that same void, I’ve found a strange kind of growth. Without clear echoes from outside, I turned inward. I worked on my craft: learning to mix and master, to shape sound with precision rather than abandon. My early music was raw, thrash-driven, born of instinct and fire. Over time, instinct gradually gave way to intent, and fury became some sort of architecture.
No one claps when you refine the decay of a single note, or when you learn how silence can weigh heavier than distortion. These are invisible victories – but they are victories nonetheless.
Silence, then, is not always a fall. Sometimes it’s a teacher, stripping away the illusion of control, reminding you that recognition is never guaranteed. And in that emptiness, it leaves you free to create.
I cannot know how many of you truly hear me. But I know I hear myself more clearly now than I once did. And perhaps that is the quiet gift hidden inside the failures.