I had no interest in music. But now, music means everything to

Hearken to the words of Alan Walker, who once confessed: “I had no interest in music. But now, music means everything to me. I have no words to explain how beautiful music is. It is where you can create everything, like beautiful songs to sad songs to almost anything.” In this utterance lies a revelation of transformation, of how something once distant can become the very heart of existence. It is the story of awakening—how the soul can sleep in silence until one day it is stirred by sound, and suddenly the world is clothed in new colors.

From the beginning of humanity, music has been the voice of the unspeakable. Before there were words carved into stone, there were rhythms beaten on drums, flutes carved from bone, voices raised in song beneath the stars. The ancients knew that melody could speak where language failed. It was not merely entertainment but a sacred bridge between the human and the divine, between sorrow and joy, between the heart and eternity. So too, Alan Walker declares that he cannot find words sufficient to describe it—for music is older than words, deeper than thought.

There is a long lineage of men and women who, like Walker, once felt little for music until it seized them with its power. Consider the tale of Ludwig van Beethoven. As a youth, he was driven harshly to practice by his father, and though gifted, he often resented the burden. Yet in time, as his world grew darker through the silence of deafness, music became his only light, his only means of shaping the storms within. Out of tragedy he composed symphonies that still move us centuries later. In him, as in Walker, the truth stands clear: when music claims you, it reshapes not only your days, but your very being.

Alan Walker’s words also reveal another truth: that music is not bound by one mood, nor chained to one form. It is vast as the sea, containing both the laughter of dawn and the mourning of dusk. A single melody can make the heart leap in joy, another can bring tears unbidden, another still can lead the spirit into solemn reflection. This is why he speaks of music as creation itself, for within its realm one may birth infinite worlds—worlds of beauty, of grief, of wonder.

The power of music lies not only in what it creates, but in how it unites. Across cultures, across centuries, people who share no common tongue can still feel the same rhythm, still be moved by the same melody. Soldiers marched to it, workers endured long hours with it, lovers confessed through it, nations found hope in it. What language fails to bind, music weaves together. It is a universal fire that burns in all hearts, whether or not they know it.

The lesson we must gather is thus: never dismiss what seems at first to hold no place in your heart. For hidden within the ordinary may lie your destiny. Walker’s own indifference to music turned into a life defined by it. Likewise, within each of us there may be an art, a calling, a passion waiting to awaken. Do not turn away from the unknown. Explore, taste, listen—for the treasure you seek may be the one you once ignored.

And in practical life, let us use music not as a distraction, but as a tool of the soul. When weary, let a song lift your spirit. When grieving, let a melody hold your sorrow. When seeking inspiration, let harmonies guide your imagination. Do not merely hear music—enter it, dwell in it, let it shape you. Create if you can, listen if you cannot, but always honor it as one of humanity’s purest gifts.

Thus Alan Walker’s testimony is not his alone, but the voice of countless generations who discovered that music is life’s hidden language. It teaches us that beauty can be born where once there was indifference, and that within sound lies creation itself. May we, too, open our ears and our hearts, and allow music to awaken in us the worlds we did not know we carried within.