Serenade

Compilations from a Don

In the quietest chapters of my life, music found me again.

There was a time I wasn’t sure I’d feel much of anything. The days moved, but I didn’t. The colours dulled. The food was flavourless. Even the beat in my chest felt off-tempo. But something subtle shifted. My senses started to stir. My taste for sound returned, like seasoning in a once-bland dish. I wasn’t fully present yet, but the bounce in my rhythm said otherwise. I could laugh again — not the deep, belly kind — but a spark, nonetheless. I started to sing along again. Not every lyric, just the ones that stuck to whatever heart I had left.

That’s how Serenade happened.

It wasn’t planned. It asked to be made. It started with a song called Serenade, and an album intro by the same name. I still don’t know which found me first. Truthfully, I was somewhere between memory and melody. A blur. All I had was instinct and my code: keep it true, keep it moving, keep it meaningful.

I can’t tell you exactly how I chose these songs — but I can tell you they’re the ones that spoke for me when I couldn’t. These tracks are like fragments of the voice I’d silenced, trying to find its pitch again. I sang out what I could. Sometimes off-key. Sometimes in silence. But it was always honest.

I’ve been quiet for a while now — not just in voice, but in soul. It wasn’t just about losing words — it was about choosing silence. And somehow, my silence has been keeping me sound. Like the quiet hum that holds a song together. Like a lull before the next verse. I’ve been staying still to stay sound through the noise. That’s not always easy. Especially when the sirens start singing — not just the blue-lit ones in the city, but the ones that haunt your memory and tempt your emotion.

Sirens don’t always wear uniforms. Sometimes, they show up in late-night texts, old playlists, or voices that sound sweeter in memory than they ever did in reality. Tempting me to drift off course, crash into the past. I’ve learned to let their songs play without answering the call. Still, I wonder: if I ever did follow their melody again, could I sing their songs better than they can?

Serenade is a soft return. A re-introduction to feeling. A playlist made for those singing in fragments. It’s the melody you hum when you’ve got nothing else to give, but still can’t stop giving.

If you’re like me — a motionless GIF with too much emotion to stay frozen — this is for you. If you’ve been dodging distractions and dodging eye contact with your own reflection, this is for you. If you’ve been hearing echoes of your old voice but can’t quite find the microphone, this is your moment.

Let the sirens sing — just don’t lose yourself chasing them.
You’ve got a song of your own. Even if it’s still writing itself.
This is Serenade. Sing like someone’s finally listening — even if it’s just you.