The Frequency of Being Human

​"The clock has struck three, the coffee is cold, and the shadows are beginning to speak. Welcome back to the desk of The Night Writer. Tonight, we decode the rhythm that keeps our hearts from stalling."

​It starts with a heartbeat, a primitive drum,
Before we have lyrics or tunes we can hum.
But soon we are teenagers, angst-ridden and bold,
Using heavy metal to do what we’re told.
We scream along loudly to songs in the shower,
Feeling like rockstars for one soapy hour.

​Music is vital; it’s life’s secret sauce,
The bridge that we walk when we’re feeling a loss.
It’s the "Eye of the Tiger" when hitting the gym—
Even if your "workout" is remarkably slim.
It’s the lofi hip-hop that helps you to focus,
When your brain feels as empty as a dried-out crocus.

​Think of the heartbreak, the "Taylor" or "Adele,"
When your romantic life has gone straight to... well.
You cry in your car to a three-minute track,
Convinced that the singer is calling you back.
Instruments weep when your words simply fail,
Like a saxophone solo in a cinematic gale.

​Without it, the elevator’s just a box in the sky,
Awkwardly silent while the floors pass you by.
No "Girl from Ipanema" to soften the blow,
Of standing near strangers with nowhere to go.
Imagine a wedding with no "Electric Slide,"
Or a movie where heroes have nowhere to hide.
​It’s the song on the radio, the one you despise,
Until you are humming it—to your own surprise.
It’s the "Cocomelon" that saves a parent’s sanity,
Or the classical suite that humbles our vanity.
From 80s synth-pop to a cello’s deep groan,

It’s the only language that we’ve ever truly known.
​So play it out loud till the neighbors complain,
Let the bass hit your bones and the lyrics your brain.
For whether it’s Mozart or a rapper’s quick wit,
If it makes you feel human, then that’s surely it.
Life is a mess of static and chores,
But music? That’s the rhythm that makes it all yours.

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​The Liner Notes: Why the Beat Goes On

​If we are machines (as I often suggest), then music is the oil that keeps our gears from grinding into dust. There is a profound biological reason why a certain chord progression can make your hair stand on end, or why a simple drum beat can compel a room full of strangers to move in unison. It is the only art form that bypasses the "Navigation System" of the brain and goes straight to the "Engine Block" of the soul.

​In this poem, I wanted to capture the sheer absurdity of our relationship with sound. We use it to celebrate, to mourn, and—most importantly—to survive the mundane. Whether you are a "Vinyl Purist" or someone who listens to "Top 40" on a cracked phone screen, you are participating in a human ritual that predates the written word. We are, quite literally, tuned to the frequency of our own joy.

​"Daylight is coming to claim the quiet, but these words stay with you. If you enjoyed this journey into the midnight hours, leave a heart or a tip to keep the candles burning. Sleep well—if you can. — The Night Writer."