My first way of telling something was through sound. Not words, but vibration. Breath, tone, an attempt to bridge the distance between myself and the world. I remember the feeling of needing to say something before I even knew what language was. Sound was the gesture by which I existed.

Later I understood that music had preserved that original form of speech. It does not express; it is expression. When I play or listen, I recognise that same instinct: the need to impose a shape on what would otherwise remain intolerably formless. Sound becomes structure, and in that structure, meaning briefly appears.

There is nothing heroic about music. It is not an act but a form of attention. It asks that you forget yourself, or perhaps that you cease to be anyone at all. In that disappearance, in that listening, everything becomes clear: the distance between tone and silence, between you and the world, between beginning and end.

When I make something, I don’t hear it as beauty but as proof of presence. Each sound marks that I exist, and that there is something outside me to answer to. Sometimes I think music is the only way to exist without possessing. It leaves no trace; it vanishes as it happens, and in that vanishing lies its purity.

Perhaps that is what I’ve been trying to say all along: that meaning doesn’t survive in what we hold on to, but in what we allow to sound, and then let go.