Identity & Illusion

Useless / Whole is a duet exploring the inner dialogue between ambition and stillness — the restless need to prove one’s worth and the deeper voice that whispers, “You are already enough.” Inspired by Peter Ralston’s reflections on self-agenda, the song unravels the subtle fear of being “useless” and discovers a profound wholeness beneath the drive to perform, achieve, or be seen. It’s an intimate conversation about shedding masks and embracing the quiet truth of simply being.

This song is the story of someone waking up to the possibility that much of their “self” is a construct — a lens built out of habit, fear, and old coping strategies.

It starts with a quiet confession: calling oneself “introverted” might not be a truth, but a shield. The lyrics unravel how repeating that story turned it into reality, even when it was just a survival mechanism. As the verses unfold, the narrator begins questioning — What if my patterns aren’t my identity? What if I’m not who I’ve always said I am?

By the bridge and final chorus, there’s a subtle liberation. The song suggests that beyond the lens — beyond the self-made roles and labels — there’s a truer self waiting to be discovered.

The Lens I Built is both haunting and hopeful, inviting listeners to ask: What parts of me are real… and what parts are just the stories I’ve outgrown?

This song unravels the comforting fictions we build to survive, asking if we truly want the truth or just a beautiful lie to hold onto. Inspired by Bob Dylan’s reflection that “life is more or less a lie,” it explores how we mask reality with stories, roles, and myths — not out of malice, but because illusion feels safer than raw existence.

This song tells the story of someone realizing that their entire life — every memory, every struggle, every belief about who they are — is just a story they’ve been telling themselves.

At first, they lived as though it was all solid and unshakable: their identity, their past, their purpose. But as they begin to question it, they see how fragile it all is — a narrative built from thoughts, meaning, and context. When they stop “reading” the story, it begins to unravel.

The Life I Imagined is about that moment of awakening, when the walls of the imagined world fade and what’s left is something much wider and quieter — reality before the story.

This song tells the story of someone waking up to the realization that their life has been guided by an unseen script — a narrative they never consciously wrote.

They’ve played many roles — hero, victim, achiever — believing the emotions and struggles were all part of “who they are.” But one day, they catch themselves mid-thought and see the story for what it is: just a construct, a voice that keeps justifying and explaining.

As the song unfolds, they begin to let go of this narrative. They see that true freedom isn’t in rewriting the story but in stepping outside of it — into the stillness where nothing needs to be defended, proven, or achieved. It’s about seeing that they’re not just a character in the play, but something much larger, watching it all unfold.

This song tells the story of someone waking up from the comforting certainty of their “life story” and realizing how fragile it all might be.

At first, they treat life as solid — the job, the relationships, the struggles — but a quiet doubt begins to creep in: What if none of this is as real as I think? Inspired by dreamlike moments of clarity, they start to see how roles, labels, and even the self they defend are just constructs, like drawings in the sand waiting for the tide.

Just a Dream is an exploration of that unsettling but freeing realization — that everything we cling to may be no more permanent or “real” than last night’s dream, and waking up might mean letting it all dissolve.

I grew up hearing that life was about chasing something — success, security, the next big thing. But no matter how much I achieved, it never felt like enough. It was like running on a wheel, always trying to grab a piece of “cheese” that kept moving further away.

One day, I stopped. I realized the chase itself was optional. I could play the game — work, create, love — without being trapped by it. I could let go of needing it all to mean something.

This song is my reminder that freedom doesn’t come from winning; it comes from stepping back, laughing at the game, and dancing in the void. Meaninglessness, when embraced, feels surprisingly light — and that’s where I find my joy.

A person begins to suspect that much of what they chase in life — success, recognition, rebellion — isn’t truly their own desire, but a trick of the mind.

They notice how every goal, every jealousy, and every moment of pride feels like part of a larger script they didn’t write. The more they try to win, the more hollow it feels, as though the victory only strengthens the very cage they’re in.

This song captures that unsettling moment of self-awareness — the realization that the mind spins its own wheel of stories and illusions. The real question becomes: What happens if I stop playing?

A creator decides to stop living for labels and expectations.

After watching Bob Dylan’s refusal to be boxed into one genre or role, they realize they’ve been chasing the wrong things — approval, identity, consistency — instead of raw expression. Dylan wasn’t trying to be great; he was simply following the truth of what he felt that day.

Inspired, they let go of their “persona” and start creating from a place of curiosity and play. They don’t need to stick to one lane or impress anyone. Each day is a blank canvas, each song a new shape. They aren’t the “singer” or the “artist” anymore — they’re just the instrument, letting life play through them, unpredictable and alive.

A man realizes that most of his life is built on stories — about who he is, what he wants, and why he matters.

Every day he wakes up and plays his role: the worker, the friend, the person who has it all figured out. But late at night, when the lights are low and the world is quiet, he starts to see the cracks. These stories he tells himself — about success, love, and purpose — are just threads. And the more he pulls at them, the more he sees how tangled they’ve become.

One night, he decides to stop spinning new stories. He lets go of the “why,” stops chasing meaning, and just sits in the silence. For the first time, he feels free — as if the web has disappeared and he’s just there, breathing, alive, without needing a mask or a myth to hold him together.