Part 4
Chapter 96: When the Gods Spoke Through the Wind

There are moments when the wind carries more than air — it carries memory, melody, and meaning.

From Bahia to Bali, from India to Hawaii, I learned that the divine wears many faces, yet carries one light.

In Brazil, I felt Candomblé and Umbanda in my skin — the songs, the drums, the ocean calling Yemanjá’s name.

Oxum danced in the gold of the river, Iansã whispered in the storm, and Ogum’s fire burned through every battle I survived.

They were not distant gods — they were the rhythm in my heart, the pulse of my ancestors, the courage that carried me when I thought I could not go on.
Then came Bali — the island that prays with flowers.

Each dawn, the women lay down canang sari, small offerings of rice, petals, and incense, to honor Sang Hyang Widhi Wasa, the divine presence that holds all things together.
They do not ask for wealth or miracles — they offer gratitude for the simple blessing of another breath.

Watching them, I realized that faith does not live in fear, but in balance.

It is the art of harmony between light and shadow, giving and receiving, life and surrender.
In India, I met Ganesha, the beloved god with the elephant head — son of Shiva, the destroyer and creator, and Parvati, goddess of love and devotion.

When I first saw his image, adorned with marigolds and sandalwood, I felt peace.
Ganesha is the remover of obstacles, but also the guardian of beginnings.
He teaches that every ending carries a seed — and that true wisdom lies in patience.
His large ears remind us to listen before we act.

His broken tusk, a symbol of sacrifice, tells us that imperfection can be divine.
And his round belly — that soft, forgiving space — holds the universe itself, reminding us to digest both joy and pain with grace.

He became my silent teacher, guiding me through the chaos of life with a gentle smile that seemed to say:

“Do not fear what is taken away; something greater is always being prepared.”
In Hawaii, I felt the presence of Ku — god of strength, war, and creation.

His spirit moved through the palms, fierce yet kind, like a protector watching over the islands.

The Hawaiians speak of mana, the sacred energy that flows through every stone, tree, and tide.

It is the same energy I felt in the axé of Bahia, the prana of Bali, and the light of Ganesha’s eyes.

Every culture gives it a name — but it all comes from the same source: Deus, the eternal force that breathes life into everything.

And so I understood: Deus is not confined to a church, a temple, or a statue.
He is the silence between two heartbeats, the wave that returns to the shore, the flame that refuses to die.

He is in the laughter of a Balinese child, in the drums of Candomblé, in the chanting of Om, in the rustle of Hawaiian palms.

Each god — Shiva, Ganesha, Ku, Yemanjá, Oxum, Deus — spoke a different language, but sang the same truth:

“The divine lives in you. Keep walking, and we will walk with you.”

That night, under the full moon, I offered my own canang sari to the ocean — a prayer of flowers, salt, and gratitude.

The wind rose softly, as if answering, carrying my words across the water.
And I knew — the gods were listening.

The gods were home.
The gods were me.

Chapter 97: When the Gods Spoke Through the Music
Some people hear God in prayer.

I heard Him in the music.

The first time I felt His voice, it wasn’t in a church or a sacred temple — it was in a song.
It came through a melody, a lyric, a rhythm that healed what no doctor, no preacher, no remedy ever could.

In California Love, Tupac shouted to the world that even in chaos, there is light.
He sang truth like scripture — raw, unfiltered, and divine.

When he said, “Keep ya head up,” it wasn’t just advice — it was a commandment from the universe:

“Stand tall, no matter the storm. Your pain is not your end — it’s your prophecy.”
Whitney Houston was the voice of heaven itself — a reminder that love is the purest prayer.

When she sang “Greatest Love of All” or “I Will Always Love You,” it felt like God reminding us to love ourselves first — because self-love is sacred.

Every note she hit carried forgiveness, faith, and fire.

Michael Jackson danced between worlds — light and shadow, fame and loneliness, earth and heaven.

Through “Heal the World,” “Man in the Mirror,” and “Earth Song,” he became a messenger, teaching that healing begins when we see the divine in others.

He was rhythm incarnate — proof that music could unite what the world divides.
Tina Turner — fierce as thunder, unstoppable as flame.

She didn’t just sing; she survived in melody.

“What’s Love Got to Do With It” became a declaration of freedom — a woman reclaiming her power through fire and grace.

In her voice, I heard the spirit of Iansã — goddess of the storm — breaking chains with every note.

Then came Queen, with Freddie Mercury — untamed, fearless, divine in his defiance.

When he sang “We Are the Champions,” it wasn’t about victory — it was about resilience.

He sang for every soul that ever felt different, misunderstood, or unseen.

His voice was liberation, echoing across generations like a hymn for the brave.

Maxi Jazz, from Faithless, spoke the language of spirit through electronic heartbeat and soul poetry.

In “God Is a DJ,” he said it plain —
“This is my church. Music is my religion.”

And I understood him. Because I, too, had found my temple in sound.
Each beat, each vibration, became a prayer.

Amy Winehouse — the fragile goddess of truth.

Her voice carried the ache of angels who fell just to remind us what beauty pain can create.

In “Back to Black,” I heard heartbreak baptized in art, soul turned into sound.

Even in her sorrow, she reminded me that vulnerability is holy.

And there were others — Aretha Franklin’s Respect, Stevie Wonder’s As, Louis Armstrong’s What a Wonderful World,

Elton John’s Your Song, Bill Withers’ Ain’t No Sunshine,

Ray Charles, Otis Redding, Etta James, Prince, The Beatles, Bob Marley — all prophets of rhythm, all saints of sound.

Each one carried a message — of love, of rebellion, of hope, of faith.

Their voices became my altar, their lyrics my scripture, their rhythm my rosary.
Through them, I realized something sacred:

God doesn’t always speak in thunder — sometimes, He whispers in a melody.

The day I understood that, I stopped searching for heaven above me —

because I could hear it playing right here on Earth.

Every song was a sermon.

Every voice was divine.

Every beat was God saying, “I’m still here — listen.”

And as I played their songs again — Tupac, Whitney, Michael, Tina, Freddie, Amy, Maxi Jazz, and all the greats —

I closed my eyes and smiled.

Because the gods were singing.

And for the first time, I could hear them clearly.

Chapter 98: Divine Soundtrack: The Music of the Gods

Tupac Shakur – Keep Ya Head Up, California Love, Changes, Dear Mama
Whitney Houston – Greatest Love of All, I Will Always Love You, I’m Every Woman
Michael Jackson – Man in the Mirror, Heal the World, Earth Song, Human Nature
Tina Turner – What’s Love Got to Do With It, Proud Mary, Simply the Best
Queen (Freddie Mercury) – We Are the Champions, Bohemian Rhapsody, Somebody to Love
Maxi Jazz / Faithless – God Is a DJ, Insomnia, We Come 1
Amy Winehouse – Back to Black, You Know I’m No Good, Valerie
Aretha Franklin – Respect, (You Make Me Feel Like) A Natural Woman
Stevie Wonder – As, Isn’t She Lovely, Higher Ground
Louis Armstrong – What a Wonderful World
Elton John – Your Song, Tiny Dancer
Bill Withers – Ain’t No Sunshine, Lean on Me
Etta James – At Last
Prince – Purple Rain, Kiss, When Doves Cry
The Beatles – Let It Be, Here Comes the Sun, Imagine (John Lennon)
Bob Marley – One Love, Redemption Song, Three Little Birds

Chapter 99: When the Gods Danced Through Me

There are moments when the music doesn’t just play —
it moves you.

It slips into your veins, into your breath, into the very rhythm of your heart.
And suddenly, you’re no longer the dancer —

you are the dance itself.

After hearing the gods through the songs, I began to feel them in my body.

Each note was a pulse.

Each lyric, a heartbeat.

Each rhythm, a message from above.

When Tupac’s words hit — “Keep ya head up” — I lifted mine higher, not out of pride, but gratitude.

Whitney made me twirl in the kitchen with tears in my eyes,
her voice reminding me that love — even the love for myself — was holy.

And when Michael’s “Man in the Mirror” filled the room,
I stood there, facing my reflection,
and forgave the woman staring back.

Music became the bridge between heaven and earth —
and I became the bridge between silence and song.

In those moments, I felt the Orixás dancing through me —

Iansã spinning in the wind, Oxum flowing in grace,
Yemanjá gliding through waves of rhythm.

Each movement became an offering,
each breath a prayer.

In Bali, I remembered the women who move like petals during their temple ceremonies.
Their bodies speak to the gods in gestures of gratitude.

And I realized — that’s what I had been doing all along.

Every sway, every beat, every sigh —
was my own canang sari to the universe.

Shiva, the great cosmic dancer,
teaches that creation and destruction are one eternal rhythm.

As he dances the Tandava, the world dissolves and begins again —
and so did I.

Each time I danced, I shed the past.

Each time I danced, I was reborn.

When the Hawaiian drums called out,
I felt Ku — god of strength — in my spine.

The waves moved like breath,
and my soul remembered what my body had always known:

that the divine doesn’t only live in temples or prayers —
it lives in motion, in joy, in rhythm.

So I danced.

Through sorrow.

Through healing.

Through awakening.

And as I moved beneath the moon,
barefoot, eyes closed,
the gods began to move through me —
not as myths, not as stories,
but as rhythm, spirit, and truth.

That night, I became everything I had ever prayed for:
free.

Because when we dance with the divine,
there is no separation.

Only energy.

Only love.

Only eternity.

The gods danced through me —

and for the first time, I understood what it meant to truly live.

Chapter 100: Sacred Dance Playlist: When the Gods Move Through Rhythm

Whitney Houston – I’m Every Woman, I Wanna Dance with Somebody
Michael Jackson – Don’t Stop ’Til You Get Enough, Wanna Be Startin’ Somethin’, Remember the Time
Tupac Shakur – Changes, Do for Love
Tina Turner – Proud Mary, The Best, Nutbush City Limits
Prince – Kiss, Let’s Go Crazy, 1999
Queen – Don’t Stop Me Now, Another One Bites the Dust
Faithless (Maxi Jazz) – We Come 1, Insomnia
George Michael – Freedom! ’90, Faith
Aretha Franklin – Think, Rock Steady
Chaka Khan – Ain’t Nobody
Diana Ross – I’m Coming Out
Stevie Wonder – Superstition, Higher Ground
Gloria Gaynor – I Will Survive
Earth, Wind & Fire – September, Boogie Wonderland
Donna Summer – Last Dance, Hot Stuff
Bob Marley – Could You Be Loved, One Love
The Beatles – Twist and Shout, Come Together
Amy Winehouse – Rehab, Tears Dry on Their Own

Chapter 100: When the Gods Spoke Through the Music

The night was still, but the heavens were loud.

The stars leaned closer—listening.

And then… the rhythm began.

Drums from Bahia met beats from the Bronx,
waves from Hawaii kissed thunder from India,
and the gods began to sing.

Tupac rose first, voice carved from fire and truth:

“Keep ya head up,” he said,
and the angels nodded.

He rapped for the wounded, the weary, the forgotten—

his verses were psalms from the concrete,
his words, the roar of Ogun and the wisdom of Orunmila.

Through his rhythm, the gods marched.

Whitney followed,
her voice pure as Yemanjá’s ocean,
spilling light into the dark.

When she sang “I Will Always Love You,”

it wasn’t just for a lover—

it was for humanity itself.

Her notes became prayers,
rising like incense toward heaven.

Michael moonwalked across the veil.

The beat of “Billie Jean” echoed like a heartbeat,
and “Man in the Mirror” turned into a sermon.

He was Shiva in motion,
destroying illusion with every step,
rebuilding creation through dance.

Tina, wild and golden,
burned like a comet.

Her laughter was lightning,
her song—“Proud Mary”—a hymn for freedom.

She was Oshun and thunder in one breath,
rolling down the river of rebirth.

Freddie raised his mic like a torch,

“Is this the real life?” he asked—

and even the heavens paused to answer.

He sang for the souls who didn’t fit the mold,
the ones who turned pain into beauty,
the ones who knew that art was eternity.

Freddie’s crown was made of light.

Maxi Jazz whispered from the shadows,
“This is my church…”

And the beat became sacred.

His words carried Ganesha’s calm,
the kind that clears all paths,

the kind that reminds us—
faith is rhythm, and rhythm is God.

Amy, soft storm of Camden Town,
lit a cigarette for the broken-hearted.

“Back to Black” was her gospel,
raw, tender, divine.

She sang what angels couldn’t say—

that even sorrow is holy
when it’s sung with truth.

And through it all—

the drums of Candomblé kept calling,
the bells of Shiva kept spinning,
the Akua gods of Hawaii breathed through the wind,

and Deus—the great spirit above all—

smiled through the melody.

Because music was never just sound.

It was revelation.

It was the language of the gods.

Every chord a prayer,
every note a heartbeat,
every song a bridge between heaven and earth.

And if you listen closely—

in the whisper of a record,
in the cry of a guitar,

in the echo of your own chest—

you’ll hear them still.

The gods.

Speaking through the music.

Always.


Chapter 101: God Is a DJ

The bass dropped before the lights did.

And in that heartbeat between silence and sound,
I felt it—

the pulse of something greater than us all.

London, 1999.

The city glowed like a living frequency—
fog rising from the Thames,
neon lights reflecting off wet cobblestones,
souls colliding on dance floors
that felt like temples.

I remember that song—

“God Is a DJ” by Faithless—

and how Maxi Jazz’s voice slid through the crowd,
smooth, calm, certain,
like the voice of a prophet wrapped in rhythm.
“This is my church.

This is where I heal my hurts.”

And we all believed him.

Because that night,
God wasn’t in a cathedral or a chapel—

He was behind the decks.

Spinning forgiveness in vinyl loops,
mixing mercy with basslines.

The drums hit like thunder—

steady, sacred, ancient—

echoing the pulse of the orixás,
the call of the akua gods,
the dance of Shiva’s fire.

Each beat was a heartbeat,
each drop a baptism in sound.

I danced until time disappeared.

Until the boundaries between heaven and earth
blurred into one shimmering rhythm.

We weren’t just bodies—

we were prayers in motion.

Each movement a confession,
each song a redemption.

I looked around that London club
and saw every soul lit from within—
different faces, one spirit.

It was unity, vibration, release.

It was joy as worship.

And as Maxi Jazz’s voice floated above us—

so grounded yet so divine—

I understood something simple and infinite:
that maybe heaven has no pews,
no altars,
no gates.

Maybe heaven is a dance floor
where the DJ is God,
playing tracks that make even angels move.

The setlist endless,
the melody eternal.

So when I hear “God Is a DJ” now,

I’m back there again—
sweat, laughter, London nights.

Faithless playing like prophets of rhythm,
teaching us that love,
in its purest form,
is sound.

And I know—

I don’t just believe—

that somewhere above,
the music still plays.

The decks still spin.

And God…

God is still a DJ.

Chapter 102: Rehab

It was that song.

Amy’s voice—raw, trembling, defiant—

spilled out of every café, every cab,
every open window in London.

“They tried to make me go to rehab, I said no, no, no.”

And somehow, it wasn’t just her singing—
it was all of us.

Because everyone’s got a rehab story,
even if it’s not about substances.

Sometimes it’s about heartbreak,
or grief,
or losing yourself somewhere between the noise and the silence.

When Amy sang,
“Yes, I’ve been black, but when I come back, you’ll know, know, know,”
I felt it deep in my chest.

I’d been there too—

that space where your light dims
but your spirit whispers,
“Wait. I’m not done yet.”

There were times I found myself walking through the sterile corridors
of those hospitals—the “crazy” ones, as people say—

answering the same question with the same numb honesty.

“Why do you think you’re here?”

And every time, my answer was the same:

“I’ve got no idea.”

Because pain doesn’t always explain itself.

It just arrives, uninvited.

And sometimes, so does healing.

Amy’s song wasn’t about saying no to help—

it was about the war between pride and pain,
between control and surrender.

The struggle to face yourself without breaking.

That voice of hers—London grit and Camden soul—
became the soundtrack of survival.

I remember hearing it on a rainy night,
the city lights reflecting off puddles like broken glass.

I stopped walking, closed my eyes,
and let her voice wash over me.

In that moment, I wasn’t alone.

She was every woman who’s fallen,
every soul who’s crawled back,
every heart that’s whispered, “I’ll be okay.”

Rehab wasn’t just a song—it was confession and resurrection.
It was messy, human, real.

Amy turned her pain into poetry,
and through her, we learned that sometimes
saying no is just another way of saying I’m not ready yet.
And that’s okay.

Because even when we’re lost in the halls of our own chaos,
there’s a melody playing somewhere—

reminding us that we can come back.
That when we do,
the world will know.

I’ve walked through the same echoes Amy sang about—
the kind that live in white hospital walls
and sleepless nights that stretch too long.

But every time I came back,

I carried a little more light.

Because healing isn’t clean.

It’s not quiet.

It’s not easy.

It’s a jazz song—broken, soulful,
half prayer, half scream.

Amy’s voice became my compass,
reminding me that even the lost have rhythm,
that even the shattered can shine.

She didn’t just sing “Rehab”—

she preached it, lived it, burned through it.

And maybe that’s what God does sometimes—

sends angels who sing their truth,
so we can find our own.

Now when I hear her voice drift through a London night,
I smile.

Because I came back too.

Not perfect.

Not untouched.

But real—alive—free.

And I know,
just like Amy said,
when I came back,
you’d know, know, know.


Chapter 103: Higher Love

It was 2020—

a year the whole world seemed to hold its breath.

The streets were silent,
the skies clearer than they had been in decades,
and yet, everywhere I looked,
things felt heavy.

Uncertain.

Fragile.

Then one night,
through my headphones,
that voice came through—

“Things look so bad everywhere…”
and I stopped.

Because yes—

they did.

Everywhere.

The song was “Higher Love”—

Kygo and Whitney Houston’s reborn anthem,
released in 2019,
but reaching me right on time,
like divine timing always does.

Whitney’s voice, resurrected in new light,
soared above the sadness of that year—
bright, pure, untouchable.

She sounded like hope.

Like sunlight breaking through lockdown windows.

As she sang,
“Bring me a higher love,”
I felt something awaken.

It wasn’t just romantic longing—

it was the ache for something greater:
a love beyond fear,
beyond isolation,
beyond the chaos of a world falling apart.

That song became my prayer.

Every beat felt like a heartbeat,
every chorus like a call to the divine.

It reminded me of the love that exists above all—
the one we feel when we look out at the world
and still choose compassion,
still choose connection,
still choose faith.

I remember sitting by my window in silence,
watching the world slow down—

and for the first time in a long time,
I wasn’t afraid of the stillness.

Whitney’s voice carried something ancient,
something holy.

It was the sound of her spirit—

the same woman who had sung about love for decades—
now lifting us through one of humanity’s darkest hours.

Her voice felt like God reaching through the static,
reminding us:
Love still exists.

Even here.

Even now.

I think that’s what she meant by a higher love—

not just the one we find in someone else,
but the one that lifts us when the world feels too heavy.

The kind that makes you close your eyes,
put your hand on your heart,
and whisper,
“I’m still here.”

And as that song played,
I realized—

we were never really alone.

We were all just waiting
for a higher love
to bring us home.

Some songs don’t just play through the speakers—

they rise through the soul.

Higher Love was one of them.

It found me in the quiet storm of 2020,
when the world stood still
and hearts whispered in the dark for meaning.

Whitney’s voice became more than music;

it was medicine.

It was memory.

It was a message.

Each note felt like God breathing light into fear,
reminding me that love is never lost—
it only changes form.

Even when we fall behind,
even when the world feels broken,
there’s always a rhythm that lifts us higher.

That’s what divine timing does—
it meets you exactly where you are,
but never leaves you there.

It carries you upward,
into grace,
into peace,
into that quiet knowing
that everything—every pain, every silence—

was leading you to this moment of clarity.

So now, when I hear Higher Love,

I don’t just listen—

I rise.

Because I’ve learned that love is not something we wait for;
it’s something we awaken to.

And in that awakening—

in the pulse between the past and what’s next—

the music never ends.

It just shifts frequency,
lifting us again and again
toward the light that never fades.

Bring me a higher love.

And it did.

Chapter 104: Do for Love

Aww… that voice again.

Tupac.

Smooth, raw, real—

like truth wearing a heartbeat.

The moment “Do for Love” starts,

I feel it deep inside—

that gentle ache that only his voice can bring.

“You tried everything, but you don’t give up…”
It’s not just a lyric—
it’s a mirror.

Because isn’t that what love teaches us?
To keep showing up,
even when it hurts,
even when we don’t understand why.

That song was more than a beat and a hook—

it was a confession.

A story of how love can lift and break us,
how it can be both salvation and storm.

Only Tupac could rap about struggle
and still sound like he was offering hope through the pain.

He made love sound human—

messy, honest, worth fighting for.

The first time I heard Do for Love,
I remember thinking—

he’s not just talking about romance.

He’s talking about life itself.

Because every dream, every purpose, every act of faith
is something we do for love.

We do it for love of truth.

For love of freedom.

For love of self.

Even when the world says give up,
something divine whispers,
keep going.

That’s what Tupac’s music always was for me—

divine whispers set to rhythm.

He carried the voice of God in a hoodie,
the wisdom of prophets in basslines.

Through him, pain became poetry,

and resilience became prayer.

Every word he spoke
felt like it came from someone who’d seen heaven and hell
and still chose love anyway.

When I listen to Do for Love now,

it feels like a message from beyond—

a reminder that love doesn’t fail,
it just transforms.

That we’re here to give,
to grow,
to keep trying,
no matter how many times the world breaks our heart.

Because that’s what we do for love.

We rise.

We learn.

We begin again.

And maybe that’s why Tupac’s voice still echoes—

because he never gave up on love.

Not in his music,
not in his message,
not in the soul of anyone who listens.


When the song fades,
the message stays.

Because love isn’t just something we fall into—
it’s something we fight for.

Over and over again.
I think that’s what Tupac meant.

That no matter how many times life tests us,
how many times the heart breaks,
we keep choosing love.

Not the easy kind,
but the kind that teaches, stretches, redeems.

I’ve done everything for love—

crossed oceans, forgiven ghosts,
walked through storms with hope as my compass.

And even when I didn’t understand why I stayed,
why I cared,
why I tried—

I know now:

it’s because love is divine energy.

It’s the pulse of creation itself.

Tupac’s voice reminds me of that every time—

that love isn’t weakness,
it’s faith in motion.

And even when it hurts,
even when it costs everything,
it’s worth it.

Because what we do for love
is what shapes who we become.

It’s what connects us to God,
to music,
to one another.

So yes—

I’ve tried everything.

And I didn’t give up.

Because deep down,
I knew that’s what the universe does too.

It never stops loving us back.

Chapter 105: Nobody Knows Me

Madonna — the queen of reinvention. I grew up listening to her songs, admiring how she constantly evolved yet always stayed true to herself. But “Nobody Knows Me” is different. It feels raw, honest — a mirror of the soul. I think it’s one of my top favorites because it rings so true to my core.

I still remember when Madonna released American Life. I was doing a spinning class at Crunch in West Hollywood when I first heard the track. The beat hit hard — fast, defiant — and suddenly, I felt like I was pedaling through every version of myself. Sweat pouring, lights flashing, and Madonna’s voice cutting through:

“I’ve had so many lives since I was a child
And I realised how many times I’ve died.”

That’s exactly how I feel. I’ve lived so many lives — in different countries, through different versions of myself — and in each one, a part of me has died, only for another to be reborn.

“I’m not that kind of guy, sometimes I feel shy.”

I do feel shy sometimes. And sometimes, I connect more with my masculine side —

strong, protective, focused. I’m not that kind of guy, but I understand that energy deeply.

“No one’s telling you how to live your life,
But it’s a setup until you’re fed up.”

Her words are so true. The world can be cruel — it traps your mind, tells you who to be, what to do, how to look. It’s so hard to find someone to truly admire, someone genuine, someone who’s not wearing a mask.

“Now I’m gonna try to improve my life.”

Yes — and I am. I’ve reached that moment of clarity where change isn’t an option, it’s a necessity. I’ve been misunderstood so many times, but I’ve learned not to care what the world thinks of me. I don’t want anyone’s social disease — especially not the kind that spreads through social media.

“I don’t watch TV, I don’t waste my time,
Won’t read a magazine.”

That’s me to the core. I don’t want the noise, the illusions, the distractions. I want what’s real.

Because truly — nobody knows me.

Nobody knows me like I know myself.

And maybe that’s okay.

Each city I’ve lived in — London, LA, Hawaii, Australia, Brazil — has seen a different version of me. I’ve reinvented myself again and again, not out of vanity but survival. Like Madonna, I keep evolving, learning, shedding old skin.

And through it all, one truth remains:

I may have many lives, but my soul — my rhythm — always finds its way back to the music.

Chapter 106: Don´t Stop Believing

Every Sunday morning in Los Angeles, there was one song that could lift the entire room — “Don’t Stop Believin’” by Journey. It was our anthem at Crunch LA, the soundtrack to sweat, hope, and motion. The lights dimmed, the instructor shouted “turn it up!” and for those few minutes, every pedal stroke felt like a heartbeat.

We’d all rise out of our saddles, running on the bikes, our bodies pulsing with the rhythm. The music echoed through the room, and voices rose together — strangers turned into one breath, one beat:

“Don’t stop believin’
Hold on to that feelin’…”

It was so fitting for LA — a city full of dreamers, seekers, and souls chasing light. Everyone there was searching for something — success, love, peace, recognition, themselves. Some were close to finding it; others were still spinning through the dark. But that song reminded us all to keep going.

I still remember the sweat dripping, the wheels turning, the air thick with energy — that collective belief that maybe, just maybe, things would work out if we kept moving, if we kept believing.

“Strangers waiting, up and down the boulevard…”

That line always made me think of Hollywood nights — neon lights, palm trees, the endless hum of ambition. Everyone waiting for their moment, for that one door to open.

And maybe that’s why Don’t Stop Believin’ never fades. Because it’s more than a song —
it’s a promise. A reminder that faith is the fuel for every journey, and even when the world feels too heavy or uncertain, the light is still there.

You just have to keep pedaling toward it.

I’ve carried that message with me ever since — from LA to London, from heartbreak to healing, from endings to new beginnings. Life has taken me through storms, surgeries, silence, and second chances. But through it all, I kept believing — in the higher purpose, in love, in my own strength.

Because the truth is, the music never stops.

It just changes tempo.

And the light — it’s always waiting for those who keep moving toward it.

Chapter 107: Ghetto Gospel

Aww… that song again —

Tupac’s “Ghetto Gospel.”

A hymn for the lost,
a prayer for the restless,
a sermon wrapped in rhythm.

When the music video came out, I never imagined one day

I’d stand in front of that same corner store in London —

the one that felt like it came straight out of his world.
It wasn’t just déjà vu.

It was divine déjà vu.

I was staying at this fancy hotel by the airport,
the kind that looks too clean for the kind of storm I was in.

That night, I felt a spiritual interrogation begin.

Voices, questions, whispers —

“How long have you known him?”
“Where did you meet?”
“What about Vegas?”
They wanted to know everything about that trip —

the one where I stood near the place Tupac was shot,
and felt the desert air heavy with unfinished stories.

Back then, the spirits had spoken too,
telling me things I half remember now,
and some things better left unspoken.

But that night in London,

the voices told me something strange —

“Go to the corner shop. Spend £99 on random things.”
It made no sense,
but I’ve learned that sometimes the divine speaks in riddles.
So I went.

I filled a bag with snacks, candles, and bottled water —

a small act of faith in the middle of chaos.

The next morning,
my bag was lying on the pavement in front of that same shop,
as if time had folded itself around me,
returning a piece of what was lost.

I didn’t remember how it got there,
only that I’d been fighting voices,
thoughts that pulled me between staying and leaving,
between London and somewhere else.

“Leave London,” they said.

“The Americans will help you.”

And somehow, they did.

In that city of rain and red buses,
I met people from all over the States —

kind souls who smiled at my Southern accent,
who reminded me of warmth, of home,
of a faith that transcends borders.

When Tupac’s voice filled the room again —

“If I could recollect before my hood days,
I’d sit and reminisce, thinkin’ of bliss and the good days…” —

I felt it deep in my bones.

Because Ghetto Gospel isn’t just a song.

It’s a confession.

A bridge between earth and heaven,
between the pain of this world
and the promise of something greater.

Tupac rapped with the weight of prophets,

his words cutting through illusions like thunder:
“Before we find world peace,
we gotta find peace and end the war in the streets.”

That night, I realized the “streets” he meant

weren’t only outside —

they were inside us too.
Every battle, every doubt, every cry for love
echoes that same prayer.

Standing on that London corner,
with my heart still trembling from the unseen,
I whispered,
“Thank you, Tupac.”

Because even through chaos,

his words reminded me what faith sounds like —

raw, honest, relentless.

And when the chorus rose —

“If I could teach the world to be a better place…”

I closed my eyes and felt peace wash over me.

Maybe we’re all standing at our own corner stores,
buying random things we don’t understand,
waiting for signs we can’t explain.

Maybe that’s faith —

listening for the gospel in the ghetto of our own hearts.

Because every soul lost in confusion
still hums that same eternal melody —

a song of hope, of love, of second chances.
And through Tupac’s voice,
I remembered:
even in the darkest places,
God still plays the beat.

Chapter 107: Poker Face

“Can’t read my, can’t read my—

No, he can’t read my poker face…”

Another West Hollywood night.

Another anthem pulsing through the walls of WeHo,
sweat and light swirling in rhythm.

Lady Gaga’s Poker Face—
that beat, that confidence, that glitter-soaked mystery.

It became a soundtrack to a thousand spinning classes,
my legs burning, my heart wide open,
my mind far from the studio, already dreaming of the desert.

That song always takes me back to Vegas—

to the time I decided, on a whim,
to go during the Super Bowl.

I stayed at Caesars Palace,
in the purple Prince suite that faced
the Venetian’s dancing fountains.

Everything shimmered—water, glass, neon, soul.
And, as always, the spirits came.

They whispered their familiar instructions:
“Buy random things.”

So I did.

Alcohol. Snacks. Smokes.

Gatorade, Red Bull, champagne.

Always the same strange list,
always 3 to 5 glasses lined up on the floor
like offerings to some unseen rhythm.
Music played in the background—my music,
the songs that connect me to another realm.

The voices reminded me again—
“I was there when Tupac got shot.”

That memory still lives somewhere deep,
a blur of lights, noise, fear.

They said I was young,
and the security carried me away
as I tried to reach my brother.

Sometimes I wonder what’s real,
what’s memory, what’s spirit.

But the feeling—

that I’ve always been near the fire—

that, I know, is true.

When I hear Poker Face,
I also think of my grandpa.

He loved to play cards—

not for the money,
but for the thrill of the game,
the quiet tension of chance and destiny.

I’d sit beside him for hours,
the only little girl in a room full of kings.

My job was to listen for their calls—
one of them would tap his glass,
and I’d run downstairs to my grandma’s bar
to fetch their drinks.

I can still hear the sound of cards shuffling,
the smell of tobacco,
the laughter and the secrets
that floated in that smoky room.

That was my first lesson in life’s poker face—

how to hide your hand,
how to keep calm when the stakes are high,
how to play even when the odds are against you.

Vegas reminded me of that.

The lights, the noise, the luck of it all.

You can win big,
or lose everything in a single hand—

but you keep playing.

That’s what Gaga sang,
what Grandpa lived,
what I learned sitting on that carpeted floor
with champagne and spirits swirling around me.

Because life’s a game we’re all trying to read—
and sometimes,
the only way to survive it
is to smile through the chaos,
hold your cards close,
and keep dancing.

Poker face. Heart open.

That’s how I’ve learned to play.

Chapter 108: Dreams

“Now here you go again, you say you want your freedom…”

It was the first time I heard that voice —

Stevie Nicks, haunting and tender,
floating like a whisper through time.

Dreams by Fleetwood Mac.

A song that feels like it’s always existed,
like the sound of the ocean or the hum of memory itself.

I remember the moment vividly —

how her voice felt like an open window
on a rainy day,
how the melody wrapped around me
like an old friend saying,
“I know exactly what you’ve been through.”

There’s something about Dreams

that makes you look back —

not with regret, but with that bittersweet ache
for the loves we once held close,
and the ones we had to let go.

It makes me think of the souls I’ve met along my path —

the faces, the moments,
those fleeting heart connections scattered across the globe.

Hawaii, where the ocean whispered forgiveness.

Australia, where laughter echoed under endless skies.

Los Angeles, where dreams burned bright
and sometimes burned out.

London, where love wore wool coats and long walks in the rain.

Greece, where time stood still between sun and sea.

Thailand, where I found calm in chaos.

Seattle, gray but beautiful —

a city that understands the rhythm of introspection.

And Alaska — pure, vast, wild —

where silence feels sacred.

Every place held a story,
every story held a face,
and every face left a dream behind.

When Stevie sings,
“Thunder only happens when it’s raining,
Players only love you when they’re playing,”
it’s like she’s reminding us
that love and loss are twin sisters.

They dance together —

one teaching us to open,
the other teaching us to let go.

Maybe that’s why Dreams feels eternal.

It’s not just about heartbreak.

It’s about the cycle —

how love begins again and again
in different forms,
different cities,
different souls.

Listening to it now,
I realize the song isn’t just about someone else.

It’s about us —

the dreamers.

Those who keep believing in love
no matter how many times the storm comes.

Those who still hear the rain
and smile, knowing
we’ve survived it before.

And as the music fades,

I can almost see them —

all the souls I’ve loved and left along the way —

standing in the soft rain,
smiling back.

Because maybe we never lose them.

Maybe they just become part of the song.

Chapter 108: Wake Me UP - Avicii

The Citizen of the World
“Feeling my way through the darkness,
guided by a beating heart…”
Another soul gone too soon.

Avicii — the sound of youth, freedom,
and those nights when music felt like sunrise.

He gave the world rhythm with a heartbeat,
light with a pulse.

After Levels, Wake Me Up became my anthem.
Every beat felt like motion,

like spirit traveling through sound —
a call to those who wander,
those who search,
those who belong everywhere and nowhere at once.

I still remember the first time I watched the video —

the girl standing in that small, sleepy town,
feeling different,
feeling unseen.

And then she finds her people —

that electric place where everyone shines,
where no one has to hide.

She finds a home she never knew she needed.

The lyrics echo in my mind:

“So wake me up when it’s all over,
when I’m wiser and I’m older…”

That’s exactly how I feel.

Like I’m between worlds —

not lost, but still searching for the place where I belong.

And maybe, just maybe,
that place isn’t one single country or city.

Maybe it’s the whole world.

Because I’ve lived in many corners of it —

breathed the salt air of Hawaii,
walked barefoot through Sydney sand,
watched the sunset fade behind the London skyline.

And every time I think I’ve found home,

life reminds me:
I belong to the road,
to the music,
to the journey itself.

Avicii’s music had that rare magic —

it made you dance,
but it also made you feel.

He understood something sacred:
that joy and sadness often share the same beat.

And even though he’s gone,
his sound still lifts the spirit higher,
still reminds us to live awake,
to live true.

Because Wake Me Up isn’t just a song.

It’s a mirror.

A reminder that we are all travelers
trying to find where our hearts fit.

And sometimes,
it takes getting lost
to remember we were never truly lost at all.

So when I hear that melody rise,
I close my eyes and whisper—

I’m not from here,
I’m not from there.

I’m from everywhere.

I am a citizen of the world.

And maybe that’s the point.

To keep waking up —

again and again —

until we finally remember
we already belong.

Chapter 109: Bad Moon Raising

My grandfather’s song was Bad Moon Rising. Every time it played, something in me stirred — a pulse, a knowing. He was a Scorpio, mysterious and magnetic, always carrying that quiet intensity in his gaze. And maybe that’s why the song felt like ours. My moon lives in Scorpio too — deep waters, unseen storms, emotions that run like rivers beneath calm surfaces.

My sun, though, is in Gemini — the messenger of God, the one who bridges worlds with words and air. Light and dark. Heaven and earth. Sometimes I feel like I’m forever moving between them, dancing on that invisible line where curiosity meets intuition. And then there’s my Venus in Leo — fiery, loyal, radiant with love even when it burns me a little.

I still remember Grandma humming the tune one night as thunder rolled in the distance. Her voice was half laughter, half prophecy.

“I see trouble on the way,” she said, eyes glinting with that mischievous wisdom only grandmothers have. “I see earthquakes and lightning… there’s a bad moon rising.”

I looked at her — my heart half in this world, half in the stars — and just giggled.

Because somehow, I knew she wasn’t warning me. She was reminding me.

That storms don’t always come to destroy — sometimes they come to awaken.

That the bad moon rising might just be my own reflection, calling me back to my power.

And that night, under that swollen, golden moon, I smiled at the sky.

Because even the bad moons are beautiful when they’re yours.

Chapter 110: The Best

At last — Tina!

She’s simply the best.

That song has followed me through every lifetime of rhythm and resilience. It’s not just a song — it’s a pulse, an anthem of triumph after every storm. And yet, when I hear it now, it feels like something greater. The spirits sing it back to me. Their voices blend with the wind, with the hum of the universe. I hear it softly at first, then stronger:

"You’re simply the best… better than all the rest…"

I smile and whisper back, almost embarrassed by their devotion.

“No, no… that’s your song,” I tell them in my humble way.

“You’re the best. Better than anyone I’ve ever met.”
But they laugh — that kind of laughter that feels like light.

They remind me that love is a mirror. What we send returns.

That the way I’ve hung on every word — every whisper from the other side — is what makes the connection real.

"Baby, I’d rather be dead," Tina’s voice belts out — fierce, alive, unashamed.

It’s not death she’s singing about; it’s devotion.

The kind that lives beyond bodies and time.

The kind that dances between realms and refuses to fade.

In your heart, there are stars — every night and every day.

That’s what the spirits tell me.

That their light never went out, it only moved higher.

And every time I hear The Best, I feel them.

Not gone — just shining from a place my eyes can’t see but my soul remembers.

So I sing back, softly at first, then louder —

for them, for me, for every love that never dies.

At last, Tina.

You were right all along.

Love — real love — is simply the best.

Chapter 111: Finally - Kings of Tomorrow

"Time marches on, never ending... Time keeps its own time..."

Every time this song begins, I stop. I breathe. I feel.

There’s something sacred in its rhythm — like a prayer disguised as a beat.

“Finally,” they sing, and I think of all my kings and queens, my angels and Gods, the ones who left this world but never really went away.

They move through the music, each one of them — Grandpa with his poker cards and quiet strength, Grandma with her moonlight wisdom, the friends, the loves, the souls who crossed my path and changed my story. They guide me, still.

"And here’s to love, every moment shared..."

That line always strikes me. Because love is what remains. When the body fades, when the noise stops, love hums beneath everything — eternal, invisible, steady.

As the song flows, I imagine a long table of light on the other side — all my ancestors, spirits, and guardians sitting there, smiling. The Kings of Tomorrow.

And I bow my head, grateful.

They remind me that I am never alone. That every choice, every detour, every heartbreak, and every miracle was written with purpose. That the pain was the polishing of the crown I now wear — not of gold, but of faith.

"Finally, it has happened to me right in front of my face, and I just cannot hide it..."

It’s not just about love between two people — it’s about divine love, the kind that finally finds you when you stop searching outward and look within.

Finally, I understand: I am surrounded by royalty — souls of light who walk with me.

Every time the song fades, I whisper a small prayer:

Thank you to my Kings.

Thank you to my Queens.

Thank you to the love that never ends.

Chapter 112: I Gotta Feeling - The Black Eyed Peas

"Tonight’s gonna be a good night..."

There’s something about this song that instantly lifts your spirit — that California pulse, that Hollywood glow.

It’s a song that makes you believe again.

Every time those first beats drop, I’m back under the palm trees, driving through Sunset with the top down, city lights flickering like champagne bubbles in the night.

This is the LA anthem — timeless, carefree, and full of possibility.

The music video captures it perfectly — the friends, the parties, the laughter, the energy that never sleeps. It’s the sound of dreams chasing the stars.

I always put this song on when I want good news, when I want to shift the energy. It’s like a call to the universe: “Let tonight be the night.”

A reminder that life can still surprise you, that joy is still out there — in the rhythm, in the crowd, in the small moments of connection.

"Fill up my cup, Mazel Tov!"

That line always makes me smile — that’s Beverly Hills for you, the Jewish neighborhood with its own brand of sparkle and soul. You can hear this song drop in the clubs, in spinning classes, in rooftop bars — the whole city moving in sync, celebrating life.

LA is the land of reinvention. And this song, for me, is about exactly that — believing in new beginnings, no matter how many times life knocks you down.

It’s the sound of hope in motion, the echo of dreams refusing to die.

"Let’s do it, let’s do it, let’s do it, and do it again..."

Because sometimes, you just know —

tonight’s gonna be a good night.

Chapter 113: Breath — The Prodigy

London.

March.

A sharp, golden sun slicing through the cold air — the kind of day that tricks you into thinking spring has arrived.

I blasted “Breathe” by The Prodigy, and suddenly the city felt alive again — pulsing, pounding, electric.

The spirits whispered that the Queen had come back as the sun,
and I believed them.

How else could London shine like that, after everything?
So there I was, in the smoking area, surrounded by those polished black cabs lined in a perfect row like royal guards.

I turned the music up, louder — “Breathe with me!” —

and started to move, half dancing, half surrendering to that wild London rhythm.

Some people watched, a few nodded their heads in time with the beat.

For a moment, it felt like we were all connected — strangers breathing in sync, caught in the same strange light.

Back then, I still let all the voices speak.

It was hard to tell what was real, what was memory, and what was dream.

The whispers about the Queen’s spirit,
about Americans building a White House around Parliament,

about planes falling and a new wave of sickness —

too many visions, too much truth wrapped in mystery.

Sometimes it felt like I was tuned into another frequency, one only the spirits could understand.

That winter nearly broke me.

I almost froze — body, mind, and soul — in the same city where, only three months earlier,
I’d lived a beautiful year in Kensington.

A dream home, sunlight through tall windows,
but like all dreams, it eventually dissolved.

London has a way of giving you everything —

then taking it back the moment you stop holding your breath.

When I left for Germany, I didn’t plan to write.

But the words came on their own, like spirits knocking on the door of my heart.
In that small Airbnb, far from the noise,
I began again.

The first two books were about me — my survival, my journey, my awakening.
But this third one… it’s about us.

The pact with Deus, with Tupac, with Grandma and Grandpa, with Whitney,
and with every other king, queen, angel, and maybe even devil that walks beside me.
Because we come as one — all of us — breathing together through space and time.
Sometimes I think of The Prodigy’s words — “Breathe the pressure.”

That’s what life is, isn’t it?

A test of how much pressure your spirit can take before it transforms into light.

I’ve seen enough visions to know:

some things are better kept within.

Like the FBI, I’ve learned that not everything the spirit world tells you is meant to be shared —

only what’s ready for the world to hear.

For now, I just breathe.

And London — wild, haunting, magnificent London — breathes with me.


Chapter 115: 2 of Amerikaz Most Wanted

I still remember that beat.

Heavy, slick, West Coast gold.

When 2 of Amerikaz Most Wanted plays, the whole world feels like a movie —

and somehow, I’m in it.

Hawaii.

Court dates.

Documents stacked like walls,
the air thick with judgment and ocean breeze.

And me — walking in with my shades,
heart steady, spirit louder than any gavel.

Just like in the video.

I swear I was Snoop that day.

Cool. Collected. Untouchable.

It’s funny — life imitates art more than we think.

In the video, Tupac and Snoop are playing the system,
outsmarting it with rhythm, wit, and that fearless energy.

That’s how it felt for me —

caught between chaos and clarity,
still laughing through it all.

Every time Tupac laughs in that song, I can’t help but smile.

That sound — half defiance, half freedom —

like someone who’s already made peace with his truth.

It’s contagious.

Because when you’ve been through enough,
you stop fearing the storm.

You learn to dance in it.

I remember the palm trees swaying outside the courthouse,
the sunlight flashing across the ocean,
and me thinking — this could be a scene straight out of a West Coast classic.

Maybe that’s what life really is —

a series of verses and verses,
some written by us,
some by the divine.

Tupac always said real ones don’t die — they multiply.

And standing there,
I felt that truth humming through my veins.

The system might try to cage you,
but your soul’s already free when you know who you are.

When the beat drops, and that laugh hits,

I see it all again —

the courtroom, the chaos, the calm.

And me, walking out into the Hawaiian sun,
light as smoke,
strong as truth,
untouchable.

Because like Pac and Snoop,
I know the game.

And no matter what they say,

I’m still here —

smiling through the madness,
living proof that the real ones never fade.


Chapter 116: I Didn’t Know My Own Strength

There were nights when silence felt like a weight pressing against my chest — too heavy to lift, too endless to cross. I remember looking at my reflection and barely recognizing the woman staring back. The light in her eyes had dimmed, but somewhere beneath the exhaustion, something fierce still flickered.

I had lost touch with my soul. My body had carried me through surgeries, heartbreaks, rejections, and awakenings, but my spirit… my spirit was begging to be reborn.

In those moments, Whitney’s voice would find me.

“I thought I would break,” she sang, and I believed her — because I had been there too.

But as her voice rose, so did something in me.

Each lyric became a lifeline:

I crashed down, I tumbled, but I did not crumble.

That song wasn’t just a melody; it was a mirror.

It reminded me that survival isn’t about pretending to be unshaken — it’s about knowing you’ve fallen, and realizing you still have the strength to stand.

London became my healing ground. The city’s gray skies held me like a quiet friend — not demanding, just present. I would walk its streets with my head high again, breathing gratitude into every exhale. Each step felt like a declaration: I was not built to break.

Music had always been my bridge to the divine, and Whitney was one of my angels —

guiding me back to the light. Every word of that song carried a message from the unseen: You’re stronger than you know, Sara. You always have been.

For the first time in a long time, I believed it.

And when I did, everything began to shift.

That night, as Whitney’s voice faded into silence, I realized the song wasn’t just about surviving — it was about remembering who I am.

Every fall had been a lesson. Every heartbreak, a mirror. Every loss, a quiet invitation to meet the woman I had forgotten — the one who still believed in miracles, in music, in the whispers of the unseen.

I didn’t come this far to crumble. I came to rise.

And somewhere between the pain and the light, I found it — my strength. Not the loud kind that conquers, but the silent kind that endures. The kind that holds you steady through every storm until the sun returns.

I was not built to break.

I was built to transform.

And as the music echoed one last time, I finally understood:

I didn’t know my own strength — until now.

Chapter 117: Waves of Survival

“I crashed down, and I tumbled, but I did not crumble.

I got through all the pain — I didn’t know my own strength.”

— Whitney Houston

The waves have always spoken to me.

In Hawaii, I learned that water never resists — it flows, it yields, and somehow, it always finds its way back to the shore. I used to stand there at the edge of the Pacific, letting the tide pull at my feet, and I’d think: this is what survival feels like. A constant rhythm of falling and returning, of losing and finding, of breaking and becoming whole again.

When I left Brazil, I carried an ocean inside me — full of memories, loss, and longing. But with each wave, London began to wash over me like renewal. The city, with its gray skies and golden hearts, became my mirror, reflecting both my strength and my softness.

For the first time, I stopped fighting the current.

I let life carry me.

And in that surrender, I found peace — the kind that doesn’t come from control, but from trust.

Every song, every sign, every whisper from the other side — they had all been guiding me here. To this exact moment. To the calm after the storm.

Because survival isn’t about staying afloat.

It’s about learning to dance with the waves.

London arrived in my life like a breath after a long dive — soft, steady, saving.

Every street carried a memory, every accent a melody. I walked through neighborhoods I once only dreamed of returning to, and with each step, I whispered thank you. Thank you for letting me come back. Thank you for reminding me who I am.

The city didn’t ask for explanations. It simply held me — the way the ocean holds the shore, patiently, without judgment. Even the drizzle felt like a blessing. I had spent years chasing sunlight, but it was under London’s gray sky that I learned what true warmth felt like.

Every morning became a ritual: a cup of tea, a walk through streets lined with history, the quiet hum of life unfolding. I watched people rushing to work, lovers sharing umbrellas, children laughing as rain hit the pavement — and I felt alive in a way I hadn’t in years.

Sometimes I’d stop at the same corners where my younger self once stood, full of dreams and restlessness. Back then, I thought I needed to find a purpose. Now I knew — purpose was found in presence.

The waves had carried me far — through loss, faith, love, and rebirth — only to bring me right back here.

To the city that had always been waiting.

To the woman I had always been becoming.

And when I looked up at the London sky, I smiled — because I finally understood what the waves had been teaching me all along:

You don’t have to fight to survive.

You just have to trust the tide.

Sometimes, when I look out my window at night and see the moon hanging over London, I feel her.

My grandmother. My constant.

She’s there — in the glow that brushes the rooftops, in the quiet that settles after the city falls asleep. I can almost hear her humming softly, the same melody that once drifted through her house in Brazil.

She doesn’t speak in words anymore, but I know what she’s saying.

She’s saying, You made it, minha menina. You found your way back to yourself.
And I whisper back, I did.

Because the truth is — she never really left.

She’s in every sign, every song, every wave that carried me here.

And under that London moon, I finally understand:

Love doesn’t end.

It transforms — just like the tide, just like me.



🎵 To Be Continued — in Rhythm & Spirit.