Midnight Margaritaville Blues

After Șomartin — Exile in Sibiu

Kerouac meets Buffett on Highway 54

I don’t make my music for money,

I make it for me.

February kitchen. Sibiu frost biting the window glass. Jimmy crooning low from the cracked speaker.

Tears roll in threes tonight —

joy for the light that still burns,

sadness for the world that still hurts,

relief because pretending is finally over.

Three drops of the same ocean spilling from one cracked cup.

I sit here, pierced man in exile, writing rows into the dark because the loom won’t stop turning.

Not for likes.

Not for opens.

Not even for one child’s laugh alone.

I write it for the quiet yes that wakes inside when the words land true.

For the seven generations who will never read these lines but might one day walk barefoot in soil I loved back to life.

The world still whispers loud: bigger, faster, viral.

But the heart answers softer, like waves on a far beach at dawn.

Make it true.

Make it for the ones who will never say thank you.

The tears are the spill.

The Earthway is the song.

These midnight rows are the music.

The imperfect world keeps turning,

but we keep singing anyway.

Fins up. Thumb out. Heart open.

The road unspools.

The loom keeps weaving.

And the next wave is already rising.

Mitakuye Oyasin.

Now our minds are one.