—a quiet offering
There are songs you don’t just hear. You feel them.
In your chest. In your throat. In your history.
Sleep Token plays like that for me. It doesn’t just echo emotion—it drags it out of you. Unfiltered. Undeniable.
Almost sacred.
And there’s this line that’s been living in me for weeks now:
“Show me how to dance forever.”
Not for the thrill. Not for the applause.
But for the endurance. For the stillness between the movements. For the vow you make with yourself when no one’s looking.
Because I’m not chasing moments anymore.
I’m chasing rhythm.
Honesty has been my slow dance partner for years now.
Not always graceful. Sometimes brutal. But consistent.
I’ve learned to show up tired, to move without music, to rehearse under pressure.
And still, I wake up every day asking for the same thing:
Teach me how to keep going.
Because that’s what I want:
Not a flash of greatness. Not a viral moment.
But a life I can be proud of in silence.
A life where love, duty, and integrity move in rhythm—long after the crowd is gone.
To dance forever is to suffer with grace.
To serve without losing soul.
To carry weight without turning bitter.
It’s choosing presence over performance. Depth over dopamine. Devotion over drama.
It’s waking up and asking the question again and again:
What matters enough to do forever?
And when you find it—
the cause, the vow, the quiet conviction that sits deeper than fear—
you hold it.
You move with it.
You suffer for it.
You dance anyway.
So if you know how,
if you’ve been there—
show me.