A question of love. (And betrayal)

There is a moment, an instant suspended in silence.

It's when your fingers rest on the keys, when your hand grips a pen, when your lips part just a breath away from the microphone. In that moment, all that exists is a relationship between us. Me and her. The idea, the melody, the emotion that presses to come out.

It's an intimate, almost secret conversation. A pact of absolute truth, without masks or filters. It's like being with a lover: you can only be yourself, naked and exposed. She knows your flaws, your fears, and asks only that you be honest.

This thing that is born is the most mine thing that exists.

Then, however, comes the world.

That door opens, and that private conversation becomes a public monologue. What was so mine suddenly belongs to everyone.

And here, right here, lies the risk of the most squalid of betrayals.

The exact moment your gaze shifts from her—from your lover, from your truth—and settles on them. On the audience. And not to seek an exchange of knowing glances, but to beg for approval. For applause. For a like.

In that moment, intimacy breaks. You begin to lie. To her, and to yourself.

“Maybe this step is too difficult, people won't like it.”

“Maybe this word is too harsh, better to soften it.”

“If I change this chord, it will sound more commercial.”

Every little concession is a piece of her you sell. And without realizing it, you stopped being her lover and became her pimp. You took her, dressed her as others wanted, and put her on the street of easy approval. You turned her into a prostitute.

Don't get me wrong. Seeing your soul resonate with another's is a miracle. It's the highest form of connection. But connection arises from shared truth, not from lies constructed to please.

I don't know about you, but I had to make a choice.

I continue to write, play, and sing for her. For that conversation between us in the silence of the room.

If, when I open the door, someone stops to listen and recognizes us, then the magic has happened. But that's not the goal. It's just a wonderful consequence.

The goal is to remain faithful.

At least to her. And a little, perhaps, to themselves too.