THE GLASS CHILD
CHARLOTTE ERIKSSON

Why I Write Music? Because it hurts not to.

 

I am... a walking contradiction and I’m no longer apologizing for it. The quiet hours are not quiet at all—there’s always something tugging. A voice. A city. A possibility I haven’t touched yet.

 

The world spins with or without our consent, so we must learn to laugh at it all. Right? I don’t know. I only know this: the small things will save us. Coffee steam on a winter window, endless roads that disappear into nowhere, salt air in Portugal that tastes like something better could still happen. Or a new pair of eyes, staring into mine.

 

The sea.
The sea.
Always the sea.

 

I love people who are loud and reckless,

but I’m mostly quiet. I'm mostly sharp elbows.

3am Friday nights all I want is to ask everyone I meet if love is really it? the thing? and how did you keep breathing when it left?

 

I still don’t know how to stop aching.

 

People are beautiful and impossible. They carry their own weather systems, their own private earthquakes. I need to know what you dream about. What did you give up? Why did you choose the life you're living?

 

Some days, I couldn't care less what anyone thinks of my art because this isn’t content; this is my life. But most days, I just want to be seen. And heard. And felt.
I need you to understand what I'm saying, ok?

 

I gave my life to my art, convinced I had something to prove to a world that wasn’t even asking. I went everywhere and nowhere. Talked to strangers who saved me for a night. Walked foreign streets until my bones showed a little too much. Eventually, I stopped looking for home in people and started building it in moments. A rooftop in a city whose name I still mispronounce. Three lines of a song that finally say what I meant.

 

My life is the space between departure and arrival; what could have been and what still can be. The art of staying open while everything tries to close.

 

I believe you can design your life any way you want—if you're willing to risk the blueprint. Break the pattern. Walk off-script.

 

When I sing, I stop disappearing. When I write, I come home. This isn’t a phase or a detour. This is the way.

 

I wanted to turn existence into art.

Instead, art taught me how to exist.