I used to think songs (or anything we write for that matter) showed up finished.
Like they knocked, stepped inside, and told you exactly who they were. Verse. Chorus. Meaning neatly attached. That belief didn’t survive the road very long.
Most songs arrive the way people do – partial, distracted, unsure if they’re staying.
Sometimes it’s just a line that won’t leave you alone. Sometimes a melody that keeps changing its mind. You live with those pieces for a while. You carry them without knowing where they belong. That part used to make me nervous. Now I trust it.
What I’ve noticed is this: anything that matters takes longer than you want it to. Understanding. Forgiveness. Knowing when to speak and when to stay quiet. They don’t come all at once either.
We’re taught to hurry clarity. To name things quickly. To wrap meaning around moments before they’ve finished becoming. But rushing doesn’t make things clearer – it just makes them smaller.
Some songs need miles. Some need silence. Some need you to live a few things you’d rather skip before they make sense. And some never fully resolve. They just get truer.
I’ve stopped asking songs to explain themselves. I let them take the time they need. The good ones always do.
It’s made me more patient with people, too. With myself. With the idea that not knowing yet isn’t a failure – it’s just a fucking phase.
The song will arrive when it’s ready.
So will the rest of it.