I'm not going to do a song that's really sad and thoughtful.

There is a wisdom in the words of Olly Murs, who declared, "I'm not going to do a song that's really sad and thoughtful. Although I've done ballads like 'Dear Darlin',' I want to make them dance and be happy." Beneath this simple statement lies an ancient truth — that the artist is not merely a mirror of sorrow, but a bringer of light. Since the earliest ages, from the songs sung around tribal fires to the lyres of the Greeks and the drums of the Africans, music has always served as both a vessel for pain and a medicine for the spirit. Murs’ words remind us that while sadness is sacred, joy too is divine — and that to choose joy in one’s art is to heal the weary hearts of others.

In the world of music, “Dear Darlin’” was a song of reflection, of loss, of tender memory. It showed that the artist had once walked the road of melancholy. Yet even after treading that path, he turned toward the rhythm of life once more. There is courage in this — the courage not to remain in grief’s echo, but to rise and make others “dance and be happy.” This choice is not denial; it is transformation. Just as the dawn rises after the blackest night, joy too must rise after sorrow. Olly Murs speaks as one who understands that life is not only endured but also celebrated.

Think of Beethoven, who, though deaf and burdened by loneliness, composed the Ode to Joy — a song that praises the union of humanity, the triumph of spirit over despair. He could have drowned in silence, yet he chose to give sound to happiness he could not hear. Or recall Nelson Mandela, who after 27 years of imprisonment emerged not to curse the world but to smile and dance at his inauguration. Such is the spirit that Murs invokes — the will to transform suffering into celebration, to make the wounded world move again.

In choosing happiness, the artist becomes a bridge. When a man dances, he forgets for a moment the weight of his existence. The laughter that rises from rhythm, the light that shines through melody — these are forms of salvation. The ancients understood this well: in Egypt, they sang hymns to Ra not merely to worship, but to lift the soul toward the sun. In Greece, they danced to Dionysus to shake off the heaviness of mortality. Olly Murs, in his modern way, follows that same lineage — the ancient calling of the minstrel who heals through joy.

Yet we must not think that choosing joy is simple. To “make them dance and be happy” demands discipline, sensitivity, and heart. It is not foolish optimism, but wise defiance. The true artist carries pain like a torch — but uses it to light the way for others, not to burn them. The songs of joy are often written by those who have seen the deepest darkness. The smile of the performer hides the long nights of doubt, but it endures because it knows that joy shared is pain lessened.

The lesson here, my children, is profound: to choose joy is an act of strength, not weakness. In every age, people will be drawn to sorrow — for sadness feels deep, and reflection feels noble. But when one dares to sing of happiness, to dance amid ruins, to celebrate the fragile beauty of life — that person becomes a creator of hope. Do not scorn the cheerful; they are often the bravest among us.

So when life tempts you to write your own “sad and thoughtful song,” remember what Murs has taught through his music — that there is equal nobility in making the world dance. If your heart is burdened, let your hands build something beautiful. If your soul is tired, lift another’s spirit. Sing your grief if you must — but never forget to also sing your joy. For joy, once shared, becomes immortal.

Thus, the path of the artist — and of every human soul — is not to deny sadness, but to transmute it. To weave it into melody, to turn it into motion, to bring light where there was once shadow. As Olly Murs says through his choice of sound and spirit: the truest art is not to escape sorrow, but to dance with it — and in doing so, make the whole world smile.