How Did I Start Making Music? And What Am I Even Doing Here?

I never imagined I would one day make music. It never occurred to me that what I heard inside myself might someday become something other people could hear too.
When I discovered software that could finally help me bring my musical ideas to life, it felt as though I had received every Christmas present of my entire life at once. But this story began long before that.
For as long as I can remember, I have loved music. I find something that speaks to me in almost every genre: an unusual melody, an unexpected harmony, an instrument whose sound suddenly makes me feel as though I am somewhere else entirely.
Yet I rarely found music that matched what I longed for in every detail. Even in my favourite songs, there might be a turn that pulled me out of the experience, an instrument I imagined differently, or a beautiful musical idea I wished had been allowed to unfold further.
I do not only hear music; I see it too. Anything that feels out of place almost flashes before my eyes like a neon sign. Since childhood, I have constantly wondered: why this way? What would happen if the melody went somewhere else here? If this instrument had more room? If the ending finally fulfilled the promise of the beginning?
For a long time, I experienced all of this only as a listener. Then, suddenly, I had a way to shape the music myself. I threw myself into creating it, and I have found it hard to stop ever since. At last, I no longer had to wait for someone else to make the music I wanted to hear.

A song begins in my head and my heart. Sometimes it starts with a melody; sometimes with a feeling, a sentence, or a particular sound. Once I sense where I want to take it, I begin working with the software.
The first version usually sounds different from what I hear inside. So I reshape it, try again, and adjust the instruments, the structure, and the balance. I listen for places where the feeling breaks, where something is missing, or where too much is happening. I keep working until the music I hear and the music I imagine begin to resonate with each other.
I am not a musicologist. Discovering instruments and exploring different musical traditions is a continuous learning process for me too. But when a song finally comes together and everything falls into place, it fills me with immense happiness. I might listen to it ten times in a row.
That does not mean I consider it objectively perfect. Someone else might dislike precisely what I love most about it. For me, though, that nagging feeling that I still want something to sound different finally disappears. It simply feels good to be there, inside the music.

My lyrics grow out of an equally personal search.
Since I was young, I have been fascinated by the human mind, our emotions, and the stories we carry with us. How can we let go of something that has become nothing but a burden? How can we make decisions that are no longer governed by old pain? How can we live more freely, with a little less weight on our shoulders?
I have spent my life looking for answers, and whenever I found something valuable, I wanted to share it. I also wrote a book on the subject and shared its ideas freely through a series of articles. Now I try to express what I have learned through music as well.
Perhaps you have heard a song that found you exactly when you needed it. A song that put something into words for you. One that left you feeling lighter, or suddenly helped you see a situation differently. That possibility is what interests me most. I want to make music that gives something: comfort, strength, insight, joy, or simply a few minutes in which it feels good to exist.
That is why I sometimes give the same lyrics several different musical forms. When we feel sad and vulnerable, we may respond to a different sound than when we are tense, need to move, or want to find our strength again. An idea reaches us differently through soft, spacious, slowly unfolding music than through a strong, pulsing electronic arrangement. Sometimes I want to tell a longer story. At other times, only a few essential lines remain, returning again and again, almost like a mantra. I also make more energetic versions for movement, exercise, or a more active day. There can be more than one way into the same thought.

I use artificial intelligence in my creative process. I want to be open about that and explain the role it plays in my work.
I bring the vision, write the lyrics, choose the musical direction, and listen, reshape, and edit the result over and over. Some songs take weeks; others take months. AI allows me to work with voices and instruments I could not perform myself.
I am not the one singing, and I am not the one playing the guitar. Yet these pieces grow out of me, and they would not exist in this form without me. They carry my taste, my decisions, my knowledge, and my experience of life. I also approach the generated singing voice as an instrument, searching for the tone and expression that best convey the feeling of the song.
I put a great deal of care into my album covers too. I explore many ideas before finding an image that feels as though it belongs with the music. I love images you can spend time with, images containing something you might notice only later, something that gives the music another layer of meaning.
For me, music can be a journey, a moment of reflection, a source of calm, or a call to wake up. I find it most valuable when something stays with me after it ends. That is the kind of music I try to make.
I began because I wanted to hear what was playing inside me. Now it also makes me happy when someone else hears something in it that they needed.