My Sound

There’s a kind of silence that shows up when life gets too loud. Not peaceful silence, more like the heavy pause that sits in your chest when you’ve been holding it together all day and it starts to slip. This song begins in that moment, and the first thing it offers is a simple promise: “my sound is pure it’s yours your cure.” From there, the song treats sound like more than background noise. It’s something you can lean on, something that moves through you and keeps moving even when you don’t know what’s next. It paints a scene of a river under a dark red sky, still running, still pulling forward, and then brings it closer: the sound “flows through your veins.” It’s not outside of you. It’s already in you, turning the lights back on from the inside. Then a different feeling breaks through: the memory of a kiss from “another life” that hasn’t really left. One line, and suddenly the song opens a door to the parts of the past that can come back without warning, the old version of you, the old choices, the old nights you try not to replay. It doesn’t explain everything, and it doesn’t need to. The point is that some things stay with you, and music is one of the few things that can reach them without forcing the words. As the song continues, it becomes a steady voice in bad weather. It talks about rain and faith, about not knowing where life is going but moving anyway. It doesn’t deny the pain. It just refuses to let pain be the ending. The nights in the song aren’t just scenery, they’re checkpoints. A Friday night that clears your head. A drive down the boulevard that feels like a way out. It’s not about pretending problems don’t exist. It’s about finding one place where your thoughts finally stop chasing you, even if it’s only for a minute. The sound becomes a shelter, and then it becomes something you can carry back with you when the shelter is gone. What stands out most is how the song makes room for anyone. It doesn’t matter who you are or what you say. If you run, it follows. If you stay and face it, it stays. It keeps coming back to the idea of being called by name, like the music recognizes you even when you don’t recognize yourself. Near the end, everything narrows down to one question that won’t stop repeating: “truth be told, where to go?” It sounds simple, but it lands like the thought that circles your mind in the middle of the night. And then comes the quiet shift: “I suppose you know.” The song isn’t only asking, it’s pointing to the answer you already feel, the one you’ve been trying not to say out loud. When it closes with “that’s my sound” it doesn’t feel like a tagline. It feels like a mark left behind after the storm passes, proof that something real reached you, and that there’s still a way through the night.