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Desert Notes: Losing My Way Back to Myself

by Valentino Dawkins

I told myself I was going home.
Just didn’t realize I forgot where that was.

There’s a strange comfort in getting lost especially when you’re running from something you once loved. Maybe someone. Maybe a part of yourself. The lines blur after a while. You start to pretend you've moved on just to keep functioning. I’ve mastered that act. Smile when needed. Fade out when it gets too loud.

I’ve been avoiding the stage.
People think it’s nerves, but it’s deeper.
It’s about walking into a spotlight knowing I’ve buried parts of me in the shadows. There’s a version of me that used to love performing. Loved sharing the music. Sharing it with her.

Backstage was our place.
Now it feels like a graveyard of things I can’t touch anymore.
There’s a wall I’ve built thick with ego, pride, fear.
And from behind it, I hear Arctic Monkeys’ “I Wanna Be Yours” on repeat, like it’s trying to haunt me into feeling again.

I’m tired of being haunted.
So I do what I always do: I run.
From the songs, from the strings, from the keys.
Dropped the guitar last week.
Left the studio mid-session.

I found a violin in a corner shop. Old, imperfect.
But something about it felt honest.
Different.
Like maybe I could write something no one could trace back to her.

I don’t want to remember her in melodies anymore.
I want to forget clean.

Truth is, I’ve lost my way.
Not in a poetic, soul-searching kind of way.
Literally. I ended up in the desert.
No crew, no schedule. Just me and the silence.
And somehow, even here,
I still catch myself looking out into the distance,
thinking maybe she’ll appear on the horizon like a chorus I forgot how to sing.

But she doesn’t.
And nothing leads me home.

Maybe that’s the point.
Maybe home isn't a place or a person.
Maybe it’s a sound I haven’t written yet.