As I've told Tyler, there's not a really easy place between being

The words of Josh Dun — “As I’ve told Tyler, there’s not a really easy place between being single and being married for us now. We’re just so busy that the logistics of our career make dating impossible. I think I’ll find a girl at some point that makes all of the extra work and effort that needs to be put into it worth it. But for right now, I just date my drums.” — echo the timeless struggle between devotion and desire, between the calling of one’s craft and the longing of the heart. Beneath his humility lies an ancient truth: that those who dedicate themselves fully to their art often walk a solitary path, for greatness demands the same faithfulness that love itself requires. His words are not of complaint but of understanding — that sacrifice is the companion of purpose, and that solitude, though heavy, can also be holy.

In these words, we hear the voice of the artist as warrior, one who chooses the discipline of creation over the comfort of companionship. “I just date my drums,” he says — a confession wrapped in metaphor. For his instrument is not merely wood and skin, but the embodiment of his soul’s rhythm. Like the blacksmith who falls in love with the sound of his hammer, or the poet who finds solace in ink and parchment, Dun reminds us that art, when pursued in full measure, becomes both lover and friend. To create is to give oneself entirely, to become bound in sacred union with one’s craft. This is the artist’s vow — lonely, yes, but luminous in its devotion.

The ancients too knew this struggle. Leonardo da Vinci, though surrounded by beauty and admirers, remained unmarried all his life. When asked why he did not take a wife, he replied only that his heart already belonged to his work. The paintings, the inventions, the countless studies of anatomy and motion — these were his companions. His solitude was not emptiness, but focus; not absence of love, but a transmutation of it. In Josh Dun’s words, we hear this same transformation — the channeling of emotional energy into artistic creation. The drum becomes his confidante, the stage his sanctuary, the rhythm his heartbeat.

Yet beneath his serenity lies another truth — that even the devoted heart still yearns. “I think I’ll find a girl at some point,” he says, and in that line glimmers hope. For even the most steadfast artist does not renounce love entirely; he only waits for a love that is worthy — one that does not compete with his calling, but complements it. He understands that true companionship does not hinder purpose, but strengthens it. He waits not for comfort, but for connection — for the rare soul who will see his music not as a rival, but as an extension of who he is.

This yearning speaks to a universal human condition: the longing to balance duty and desire, ambition and affection. Many in every age have faced this tension. The samurai who swore loyalty to his code could not afford the distractions of romance; the philosopher who sought enlightenment walked alone beneath the stars. Even the prophets and poets of old carried this burden — torn between the love of the divine and the love of another heart. And yet, in this struggle, there is beauty. For it teaches us that love takes many forms: the love of art, of truth, of mastery, and yes, someday, of another soul who understands the fire that burns within us.

From this, we draw a powerful lesson: that there are seasons in life when solitude is not punishment but preparation. To be “too busy” for love, as Dun says, may in truth mean that one is being refined — learning discipline, focus, and the strength to give fully when the right time comes. Love, like art, demands readiness. If given too soon, it withers; if tended with patience, it blooms. Therefore, one must never despise the lonely years. They are the crucible in which both the artist and the lover are made.

So let those who walk the path of purpose take heart in Josh Dun’s words. When your hands ache from the work, when your heart aches from the waiting, remember that even solitude has music in it. Date your drums — love your craft, tend to your gift, pour into it all the tenderness you one day hope to share with another. And when love finally arrives, it will not ask you to abandon your art, but to bring it with you — for the one who truly loves you will hear the rhythm of your heart in every beat you play. Thus, art and love, once divided, will become one harmonious song — the song of a life well-lived and well-loved.