I'm so thankful that I had music to turn to in the dark times

Hear now the words of Flying Lotus, the weaver of soundscapes, who once declared: “I’m so thankful that I had music to turn to in the dark times and be able to understand myself through it.” This utterance is not merely a reflection on art, but a hymn to the eternal power of song, which has always been humanity’s companion in suffering and its lantern in the caverns of despair. To be thankful for music is to acknowledge that sound itself, when shaped by the soul, becomes more than notes—it becomes a lifeline, a mirror, a teacher.

From the earliest dawn of civilization, music has been the bridge between the human spirit and the unknown. When the ancients gathered around fire, they lifted their voices to the stars, shaping chants that bound them together in courage. When warriors marched into battle, drums beat to steady their hearts. When mourners buried their dead, laments rose to carry grief into the heavens. Flying Lotus, in his modern way, speaks with this same ancient truth: that in the dark times, when reason fails and words collapse, music remains, a language deeper than speech, capable of revealing the hidden chambers of the self.

Consider the story of Ludwig van Beethoven. Deafened, despairing, abandoned by the comfort of sound itself, he stood on the brink of silence. Yet within that silence, he still heard the voice of music in his soul, and from his pain he wrote symphonies that thundered with defiance. Through music, Beethoven did not merely survive his suffering; he understood himself anew, transforming his wounds into triumphs. Flying Lotus’s confession is thus part of a lineage of souls who turned to music when the dark times threatened to consume them, and in it found not destruction but rebirth.

The words also reveal a deeper wisdom: that self-knowledge is born not only in stillness but in expression. Flying Lotus says he came to understand himself through music. This is the power of art—it does not only entertain, it reflects. The painter sees himself in the colors he lays down; the poet discovers hidden truths in his own verse; the musician hears in melody the whisper of his own soul. The ancients would call this catharsis: the cleansing of the heart through creative fire. It is in the act of making and listening that one’s inner labyrinth becomes illuminated.

We must also see the heroism in his gratitude. For many who suffer in dark times curse the world and abandon all gifts. Yet Flying Lotus proclaims, “I’m so thankful.” He acknowledges that even in despair, he was not left empty-handed, but given a tool, a companion. This gratitude is itself a form of strength: the ability to say, “Though I suffered, I was not alone.” The Stoics taught that fortune often gives us less than we desire, but always something to endure with. For him, that something was music.

The lesson is eternal: in times of struggle, do not silence your creative voice. Whatever form it may take—song, writing, painting, dance—let it speak, for it may reveal truths your mind cannot grasp in logic alone. Be thankful for the arts, for they are the vessels by which the soul sails through storms. Do not seek only entertainment in them; seek also understanding. For the art you turn to in sorrow may be the key to who you truly are.

Practical wisdom calls to you: keep a journal of expression, whether with words, sounds, or sketches. When dark times come, pour your turmoil into creation instead of silence. Listen to the music of others who have suffered before you, for their songs will remind you that you are not alone. And above all, cultivate thankfulness for the gift of expression—for it is the lifeline that rescues us when the shadows grow heavy.

Thus let us carry Flying Lotus’s teaching: that through music—and through art—we may endure, we may understand, and we may even find joy in the midst of sorrow. For the one who sings in the darkness is not conquered by it, but transforms it into light. And in the end, gratitude is the final note—the song that outlasts the storm.