New York City
I never said this before, not out loud, not this complete. It took me two decades to even realize I had something to say to you. To even understand what it meant to carry you in my heart the way I have.
You were the blueprint. The beacon. The pulse of a culture that gave birth to more than sound it gave birth to soul survival. I don’t just mean hip hop. I mean the entire way we tell our stories, carry our pain, make rhythm out of our reality, and find power in the presence of struggle. I didn’t grow up in your boroughs. I didn’t walk your streets daily. I grew up hundreds of miles away in the Midwest. But somehow, you still raised me.
Because long before I understood systems, long before I had language for oppression or power or resistance I had the music. And the music had you.
I turned the volume up on your voice long before I knew who I was. And in doing that, I learned how to observe my own life. I didn’t know that headphones could be a classroom. That lyricism could be legacy. That those tracks pumping through my speakers were more than just beats they were methods. Formulas. Instructions on how to deal with the kind of weight life throws at us when we’re born into systems we never asked for.
So when I say New York City, I’m not just talking about a dot on a map. I’m talking about the standard. The structure. The layers of real and fake, of love and loss, of grind and glory. I’m talking about the unspoken system that can recognize real in a second and ignore the rest with equal precision.
You showed me how to decode a message. How to know when someone was really talking that talk. You trained my instincts. My filter. My meter for authenticity. And that’s the type of mentorship that can’t be taught in a classroom it’s absorbed. It’s lived.
Your stories branched out like roots through the entire nation. Every rhyme I memorized. Every interview I watched. Every cipher I studied. All of it whether it was happening far and beyond felt like it was reaching me personally. Because in some deep, undeniable way, you made me feel like I was part of something bigger. Like I wasn’t crazy for feeling what I felt. Like I wasn’t alone in the struggle to survive with dignity.
And I want to say thank you for that.
Because when I look back on everything my neighborhood, my family, the things we lived through with no blueprint I realize how essential your presence was. Not just in sound, but in spirit. You were proof that we could fight back. That we could turn pain into poetry, trauma into testimony, and survival into style.
Even now, standing in a different chapter of my life, I can say without a doubt that the reason I kept creating, kept speaking, kept standing is because I knew I wasn’t the only one. You showed me that people like me had already carved a lane. And that meant maybe I could carve mine too.
So here I am. Talking to you like an old friend I never properly introduced myself to. I’ve passed through your city. Delivered packages across your bridges. Seen the way business gets done on tight streets, with sharper timing, and even sharper instincts. I saw the hustle in the eyes of people who don’t need introductions. Who don’t need to talk loud to make noise. Who are too busy making moves to explain why they move the way they do.
And I respected that.
Because if there’s one thing New York taught me before I ever set foot on your soil, it’s that power isn’t loud it’s present.
So this letter isn’t for attention. It’s not for approval. It’s a moment of reflection. A moment of truth. From someone who was shaped by your echo long before they ever heard your voice in person.
I’ve never been one to fake it, and neither have you. So from one real to another I’m grateful. I see you. I carry you. And no matter what the world turns into, no matter how the algorithm swallows souls or how watered down the culture becomes, I know where the original frequency came from.
This blog, this space, this message it’s for the ones who know. And if you know, you know.
2: The Safety Dilemma – When Protection Becomes a Crime
Now that I’ve said my thanks, let me tell you why it’s been hard to come back.
Because as much as I admire you, I still feel uneasy. Not because of the people, not because of the energy that’s what pulled me in but because of the laws. The way you handle safety. The way you treat self-defense like it’s a threat instead of a right.
Let’s be real New York City is one of the most alive, unpredictable, and high-stakes places in the country. But I wasn’t allowed to legally carry a weapon to protect myself when I came through. That’s wild to me. You mean to tell me I can come deliver goods, contribute to the flow of your economy, walk your streets, serve your businesses but I can’t protect my life?
How does that make sense?
Meanwhile, presidents, politicians, entertainers roll through surrounded by armed security like kings in armor but everyday people like me? We’re expected to trust that help will arrive on time. That we’ll survive an encounter with disrespect, violence, or danger with just our wits and luck.
That ain't enough.
And let’s not pretend we haven’t seen how New York handles situations when things go wrong. We’ve all seen the videos. The news clips. The cases where people especially artists, Black men, and everyday folks just trying to survive get locked up not because they were dangerous, but because they were prepared.
See, this is the part of the system that trips me up. How are we supposed to believe in safety when we’re not allowed to secure it ourselves? It makes me feel like I’m being set up to either take the risk of being defenseless, or take the fall for carrying what I need to walk through this world with peace of mind.
And that’s the kicker.
Peace.
What does peace look like in a city that never sleeps? Where the blocks are packed, the tension is thick, and opportunity comes with a side of stress every single time? In New York, it seems like your peace is your paper. If you don’t have the money, you don’t get the options. You don’t get the comfort. You don’t get the privacy. You just get the grind.
I’m not naïve. I get why the laws are the way they are. I understand that open carry in a place this dense would raise its own risks. But here’s the thing: when you disarm people who are just trying to get home safe, what you really do is hand the streets over to the chaos. You’re not stopping violence you’re shifting who gets to survive it.
And that’s not justice. That’s imbalance.
So no, I didn’t carry when I came through. I followed the rules. I made my deliveries. I kept it moving. But I’ll be honest it didn’t make me feel better. It made me feel exposed. Because in a country where we glorify guns, in a society built on the idea that freedom comes with the power to protect it, why is it that I’ve got to feel like a criminal just to be safe?
I’m not asking for chaos. I’m asking for logic. I’m asking for the system to recognize the reality of the streets and the dignity of the people walking them. I’m asking for a space where being prepared doesn’t mean being punished.
Because like I said I’m not some troublemaker. I’m a man with a family. A worker. A builder. Someone who’s been knocked down by life more times than I can count but still wakes up every day to feed the people I love. I move with purpose. I don’t start problems, but I’ll finish one if I have to. And if I’m going to come into your city and give you my energy, my time, my business then I need to know I won’t be turned into a criminal for carrying my peace.
So yes, New York, I still admire you. But I also challenge you. Because you’ve always been the place that sets the tone. And if anyone can understand the difference between chaos and control it’s you.
3: The Music Industry’s Magic Trick – Turning Soul Into Data
Now let me shift gears.
Because after we talk about safety, we gotta talk about value.
Not the kind printed on price tags but the kind that lives in vibration.
The kind we carried in our chests before it got chopped up into bytes and sold back to us in fractions of a penny.
Let me say it plain: I’ve been doing music for years. Not because of a check.
Because it’s what I do.
Because sound kept me alive when silence was too loud.
Because production, for me, is therapy, testimony, and time travel. It’s a record of who I was what I’ve seen where I’ve been.
It’s not just art. It’s memory encoded.
But somewhere along the way, the world stopped treating it like that.
One day, albums turned into streams.
Art turned into background noise.
And worth?
Worth got lost in the algorithm.
See, I watched millionaires rise from music watched songs change the weather in whole neighborhoods. But that was back when people bought music. When buying a CD or vinyl wasn’t just commerce it was commitment. It was, “I see you. I feel you. You matter.”
Now?
Twenty thousand streams barely buys a lunch.
And here’s the part that burns me up:
They turned our expression into exposure.
They dangled visibility in front of us like it was currency.
“Just go viral.”
“Just build your brand.”
“Just get your numbers up.”
And somewhere in that cycle, they swallowed the soul of the artist.
Now you’ve got young creatives grinding for a million plays just to make what a warehouse worker earns in a week.
We built platforms with our sound, our slang, our struggle.
And now these platforms treat us like content.
They took the song that saved your life and gave it a payout of $0.003.
Let that sink in.
Me? I still make music. But I’m not blind.
I don’t expect the game to pay me what I’m worth.
Hell, I barely expect it to pay me at all.
I make music for the SEO. For the legacy. For the ones searching for something different in this copy-paste culture.
And let me be clear I’m not some bitter vet crying over spilled contracts.
I’m just honest.
I’m still trying to break through what I call “The Media Wall” that invisible force field between artists and real connection.
We speak. We post. We create.
And the world barely hears us unless the algorithm permits.
It’s like screaming into a storm hoping somebody feels the echo.
So here’s where I stand:
I’ll still put my music out. But understand when you stream it, you’re getting it free.
If you want to build with me, if you want to see this art grow, you buy it. You tell a friend. You show support in a way that creates circulation, not just consumption.
Because when the artist makes money, the artist grows.
When the artist grows, the art matures.
And when the art matures, it feeds you in ways no trend ever could.
That’s why I refuse to let this system keep devaluing what we bleed for.
My voice is one-of-one.
So is yours.
And yes anyone can mimic the look, copy the cadence, swipe the style.
But they can’t remake you.
They can’t remake the moment when your spirit said, “This is what I need to say right now,” and music gave you the mic.
So to all my people still making music from the gut, from the grind, from the God-place inside you: keep going.
Even when it feels invisible.
Even when the data don’t match the depth.
Because we’ve been valuable long before the world figured out how to monetize our frequency.
They can’t box in our brilliance.
Not forever.
SECTION 4: Peace Ain’t Free in the City That Never Sleeps
I haven’t walked every block.
But I’ve felt the pulse.
And if you ask me what peace looks like in New York City, I’ll tell you it’s not soft, and it sure as hell ain’t free.
Out here, peace wears a fitted cap and a stiff walk.
It’s loud, it’s fast, and it costs rent every thirty days.
In NYC, peace comes with receipts because paper is your power.
See, when the whole country already knows your rent's insane, that’s not just economics.
That’s pressure.
That’s survival.
That’s waking up every morning knowing you gotta fight for comfort, for breathing room, for the space to even think straight.
And that’s why the grind hits different in New York.
From the outside looking in, people might call it hustle.
But from the inside?
It’s more like war with a dress code.
It's sports, but your life’s on the scoreboard.
Every step, every deal, every missed train it’s all strategy. And if you’re not playing to win, you’re losing ground by default.
I saw it for myself. Driving that truck, making deliveries through those tight streets, watching how people moved.
No smiles. No stares.
Just transactions.
People tucked into corners taking orders, moving weight, keeping their privacy and their profit.
You learn real quick: New York don’t play.
Not about space.
Not about business.
Not about minding your damn business.
But behind that sharp edge?
I recognized something familiar.
Struggle.
I know it well and so does this city.
Because while NYC might be the birthplace of hip hop, finance, fashion, and dreams, it’s also the breeding ground for insomnia.
A place where you can rise to the top without ever taking a breath.
Where everyone’s climbing, and nobody’s sleeping.
And if the city doesn’t rest, then where do you?
Where do you lay down your stress?
Where do you feel safe from the noise, the bills, the ambition clawing at your chest?
That’s why I say peace isn’t just in your paper it’s in your power.
The power to control your space, no matter how small.
The power to make your own path when the map don’t fit.
The power to own something anything in a world designed to keep you renting your own life.
So here I am, saying this out of respect:
New York City already knows how to make money.
Y’all already know how to move in silence, how to turn pressure into profit, how to sell water to a whale and make the whale feel lucky.
And that’s beautiful.
But don’t forget: it’s not just about the bag.
It’s about building something that can’t be taken when the block changes, when the app crashes, when the job disappears.
Because at some point, it’s no longer about survival.
It’s about positioning.
It’s about building your world before someone else rents it back to you.
So like I said: this is my Last Stand.
Not because I’m done, but because I’m fully here now.
I’m done floating. I’m done reacting.
I’ve built my vault. I’ve named my mission.
And every move I make now comes from that foundation.
I’m not clocking in hoping for peace anymore.
I’m creating it.
So if you’re from NYC really from it you already know what I’m talking about.
You feel it in your chest.
You feel it when you swipe that MetroCard or chase that invoice or dodge that bullet.
You’ve been tested in ways some folks will never understand.
But that’s why you shine so hard.
So to you, I ask:
What do you really care about?
Because what you care about will show in your walk.
It’ll decide what you chase when you wake up.
And what you chase today?
That’s going to shape what your tomorrow looks like.
You and me both.
SECTION 5: The Exit Plan is Ownership
This is what I know now:
If we don’t build for ourselves, we’ll keep getting taxed to exist inside someone else’s blueprint.
Every beat we make, every step we take, every hustle we run if it’s done inside another man’s house, then we’re renting our own survival.
And eventually, we get evicted.
Because peace real peace comes with ownership.
Not just the deed to some land.
I’m talking about ownership of time.
Of decisions.
Of legacy.
Of what your name is attached to when you’re no longer here to speak it.
That’s what I’ve learned watching New York City from the outside in.
That’s what I’ve learned living life from the inside out.
Because I’ve been in rooms where the work was solid but the power was missing.
I’ve done the math.
I’ve seen the bills get paid, but the life still feel bankrupt.
And the truth is, if we keep leaning on borrowed systems, we’ll stay under borrowed ceilings.
See, they never should’ve let us learn economics late.
They should’ve taught us in kindergarten that everything around us is a business:
The clothes, the food, the buildings, the lights, the streets, the screens.
Somebody owns it all.
So why not us?
Why not teach kids what assets are before they ever learn to pledge allegiance?
Why not start life with ownership in mind not as a reward, but as a right?
Because when the dust settles and your name’s not on the paperwork, what you built becomes somebody else’s retirement plan.
And that’s no legacy.
That’s labor with no inheritance.
I say this with love and frustration because I’ve watched us get brilliant.
Innovate.
Transform our pain into poems.
Turn struggle into rhythm.
Make lemonade stands out of entire broken economies.
And we still hand over the rights.
Why?
Because nobody told us that ownership wasn’t just a flex it’s an escape route.
It’s how you stop clocking in to survive and start moving to create.
So yes, let the job be the front end.
Let it fund the flip.
But don’t let it trap your future.
Use the job. Don’t let the job use you.
Because the longer we delay ownership, the longer we stay dependent.
Dependent on the platform.
On the algorithms.
On policies we didn’t write and systems we didn’t design.
And eventually, even the best artist with the truest message becomes just another post that didn’t get seen.
So I’m saying this now:
Let’s stop building castles out of content.
Let’s build ecosystems.
Let’s build land that feeds us back.
Let’s make our art feed our kids not just strangers scrolling.
That’s why this letter was written.
Not for fame.
Not for clicks.
But for that one person reading who’s tired of the loop.
Who knows deep down that they’ve been creating magic in someone else’s machine.
That person who wants to flip the script and own the ink.
And to the women out there
The ones building homes, raising spirits, making ends meet and still pushing to leave something behind that no one can erase
Thank you.
You are not invisible.
You are the reason any of us get to heal in the first place.
So New York City…
This one was for you, but it’s also for all of us.
From the Midwest to Brooklyn, from the Bronx to Berlin
This is the moment we unplug.
Not to run away.
But to re-center.
To reclaim our rhythm.
To build what can’t be taken.
And when the system comes knocking asking for our worth, we won’t need to explain.
We’ll already own it.
Presence is power.
This is the Last Stand.
And the door is open.