They say healing takes time. But when time is the one thing you’re running out of, you pick up whatever’s left—and try to make it count.
I’m a street musician in Australia. I’ve played in rain, under stars, in front of drunk strangers, and kind ones too. Music has been the only stable thing in my life. A quiet anchor in the chaos.
A week ago, I got into a motorbike accident. I don’t know exactly what’s broken in my chest—maybe a rib, maybe something deeper. But something hurts. Breathing hurts. Laughing hurts. Playing guitar hurts the most.
Still, today I went back out and played. Just for an hour. Just to remember who I am.
I didn’t last long.
The pain came back like a reminder: you’re not ready yet. But how do you explain that to rent, to food, to life?
While resting, I wrote a book. It’s short—because I had to write it in between pain and fear, in the little bursts of energy I could manage. But every word is honest. Every page is real.
No editors. No team. No fancy launch. Just me, a cracked chest, a borrowed phone, and the need to be heard.
I’m sharing this because I don’t know how much longer I can keep going without help. And because if there’s even one person out there who understands what it feels like to fight alone, maybe this story will remind them—they’re not.
If you read this, thank you. If you decide to read my book, thank you even more. It’s called The Signal. It’s pay-what-you-want. Because I didn’t write it to get rich—I wrhttps://kairomusic.gumroad.com/l/laydml?fbclid=PAZXh0bgNhZW0CMTEAAac8xs9NyalMCMyVk83vDaB8WpGT2aPAwSnXEiGHdITfdeeSvWvPOugTbeuN2w_aem_E_r1YUuqKegqUk8bhWh8awote it to survive.