Static

They tell me: “This is how it’s always been done.”
Like tradition is truth,
like repetition makes it holy.
But I hear it different—
I hear the buzz,
the white noise hum
of a signal stuck in place.

Static.

Static is what happens
when growth is gagged,
when frequency forgets to move.
When vibration is forced to sit still
and call itself order.

But life was never meant to stall.
Fibonacci spirals don’t circle back,
they unfold,
they expand,
they bloom into forever.

Static is the death of music.
The radio was made to tune in,
not to loop noise.
And me?
I’m the antenna.
I’m trained to catch transmissions
from beyond the blindspot,
from the space where innovation whispers,
from the place where God still breathes new.

So don’t hand me static
and call it sacred.
Don’t chain me to comfort
and call it culture.
I was built to tune beyond it,
to move the dial until the crackle clears
and the true song comes through.

Because nobody loves static.
But everybody needs signal.
And I—
I was born to broadcast.