Goals? Bollocks, the lot of them. They’re like reheated coffee—bitter and pointless. I don’t do goals. They just don’t fit with how I tick. This isn’t the Hyde Park anyone remembers; this is Hyde Park 2.0, where the living buildings cranch, and the streetlights flicker like they’ve got plans. You don’t need goals in a place like this. It’s alive, always shifting, like the city’s synced up to its own beat, and you’re just trying to keep pace.
Think I’m sitting here counting down the tracks I need to finish before I hit some magical number? Nah. No “Hyper-Pop Messiah” status for me. Chasing numbers? That’s like trying to catch the wind, pointless as trying to buzz off decaf. I’ve learned to let that stuff slide off. The real magic isn’t in numbers; it’s in the work itself.
Take Lake Michigan, for example. March, no wetsuit, just me and the water. That first dive is pure madness—your body doesn’t know whether to fight it or let it take over. You lose track of where the water stops and you start. The lake, it’s more alive than I am. And suddenly, you’re not even in the lake anymore. You’re somewhere else—a desert, the sand endless. The water’s gone. You know it was once here, but now? Now it’s just dust. You feel the loss, but you keep going, because underneath it all, the pulse is still there. You just have to listen for it.
That’s what it’s like in the studio. I’m not after some top 40 hit to please the algorithm. I’m pulling beats from the air, finding the rhythm that connects with the city, with me. Every track’s a conversation, not a product. It’s about getting the right layers, like you’re decoding a message only the streets can understand. That’s where the energy comes from—not the charts, not the numbers. Just the process.
People love to chase goals. Fame, streams, validation. But what’s the point of it? Goals are external, hanging out there like someone else’s half-finished coffee. You can’t control ‘em. Grammys, streams, they’re all noise, calculated by machines crunching numbers in some office far from here. Meanwhile, the real stuff? The real buzz? It’s in the grind, the day-to-day. Showing up, even when the coffee machine’s broken, and the ghost of the IC starts whispering weird conspiracies into your headphones.
I know there’s some guy out there who thinks if he hits two million streams, he’s got it made. Like that number means something. Spoiler: it doesn’t. It’s just a number he grabbed from the air, probably because his mate got 1.5 million. But he’s missing the point. While he’s chasing that finish line, he’s forgetting to feel the beat under his feet. That’s the real crime. The magic’s not in the number—it’s in the rhythm that keeps you moving.
So, yeah, I don’t have goals. But I’ve got the process. The daily grind, the layering of sounds until something clicks, until you feel the pulse, like the city itself is talking back to you. One track at a time. That’s where the gold is. In the moments where it’s all chaos, and somehow, that chaos makes sense.
And that’s enough to keep me going. The cold plunge, the broken coffee machine, the endless rhythm of a city that never quite sleeps. One beat at a time.
Now, I think my coffee’s ready to show me something else. Let’s see where this goes.
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