Anybody I'm dating, I don't want them to talk about my music. I

“Anybody I’m dating, I don’t want them to talk about my music. I don’t talk about my music to them.” Thus spoke Nas, the poet of the streets, the philosopher of rhythm, whose words have carried the weight of truth and struggle through generations. Yet in this simple statement lies a wisdom both ancient and profound—a reflection on privacy, authenticity, and the sacred separation between art and intimacy. For Nas, who has lived a life under the gaze of the world, these words reveal not arrogance, but a deep desire for genuine connection—a yearning to be seen not as a legend, nor as a symbol, but as a man.

In the ancient days, the artists and prophets knew this feeling well. Consider Homer, who sang the epics that shaped civilization, yet whose face remains unknown to history. He poured his being into his art, but kept himself hidden, for he understood that the man and the work must live apart. So too does Nas, who crafted verses that defined a generation, seek to preserve a realm untouched by fame—the quiet world of the heart, where love is not measured by applause. When he says, “I don’t talk about my music to them,” he guards that sacred flame within, knowing that some things must remain untouched by the world’s curiosity.

For in love, as in art, there must be silence—a space where the soul may simply be. The one who lives always in performance, who allows every private breath to be observed and judged, loses the essence of self. Nas, a master of words, understands the power of what is unsaid. To keep his music outside the walls of intimacy is to protect the purity of connection—to ensure that those who stand beside him do so not for what he has achieved, but for who he truly is beneath the crown. This is a lesson in humility and in boundary, rare in an age that hungers for constant exposure.

History, too, offers us mirrors of this truth. Leonardo da Vinci, genius of the Renaissance, would often veil his works in secrecy, leaving behind notebooks filled with riddles and reversed writing. He knew that art loses its mystery when it becomes a topic of idle talk. To keep some part of one’s creation hidden is to preserve its power—and one’s soul. Likewise, Nas speaks as one who has learned that to live constantly within one’s legend is to be devoured by it. He seeks, instead, what all wise souls seek: a place beyond the echo, where love is not performance but peace.

His words are also a meditation on identity. The world may know the artist, but few know the man. The creator’s burden is to be loved for his light, while longing to be seen for his shadow. To speak of music with those closest to him would blur the boundary between the stage and the hearth, between Nas the icon and Nas the human. In refusing that blending, he teaches us the discipline of protecting one’s inner life. There must be parts of the self that remain sacred, unseen, unsaid—lest the spirit become hollow from too much sharing.

And yet, within this restraint lies tenderness. For to keep one’s art apart from one’s love is not to build walls, but to offer freedom. Nas does not wish for his beloved to revere him—he wishes her to know him. He refuses to let art become the bridge or the barrier between two hearts. In this, he honors the purity of human connection, which must exist beyond admiration or fame. True love, he reminds us, is not built upon what one creates, but upon what one is when the world grows silent.

Thus, dear listener, learn from his words: guard the sacred boundaries of your own spirit. In an age where all things are broadcast, learn the strength of silence. Do not let your work, your fame, or your craft consume the tender spaces of your life. Keep a part of yourself that belongs only to you—a place where you are not the worker, the artist, the achiever, but simply the soul at rest. In that stillness lies your truest self.

And so the teaching of Nas becomes timeless: speak your truth to the world through your art, but protect your heart from becoming a stage. Let love dwell where applause cannot reach. For in the quiet, beyond fame and creation, lies the one thing more enduring than art itself—the peace of being truly known.