Lanternbones

I went to Alaska in winter, not for an adventure—
but because I didn’t want to be alive anymore.
I thought maybe if I disappeared into the snow, no one would have to find me.

Over 300 planes have gone missing or crashed in Alaska. I found one of them when I was ready to vanish—and it made me want to stay

And I wouldn’t have to explain.

It was so quiet out there. No cell signal, no noise. Just wolves in the distance.
I hadn’t seen another person in days when I found it—a plane wreck, buried in the snow.
Half-sunken in a drift, broken open like it had been forgotten by time.
The fuselage looked like a ribcage. The cold had softened everything.

Inside, there was no blood. No bodies. Just rust and frost.
But it felt… inhabited. Not haunted in the scary way—
Haunted in the holy way.
Like the people who’d been there hadn’t left completely.
Like the wolves were keeping their memory safe.

I didn’t touch anything. I just sat there in the snow.
And for the first time in a long time, I didn’t want to vanish.
There was something beautiful about how the wreck hadn’t been erased.
How the forest just held it. How the silence wrapped it gently.

I thought:
Maybe the point isn’t to be saved.
Maybe it’s just to be witnessed.
And maybe the broken things—like planes, like people—don’t have to be thrown away.
Maybe they just rest. And become part of the evergreen.

That’s where Ghosts in the Evergreen came from.
A song for what’s been lost. And what quietly chooses to stay.

Ghosts in the Evergreen

“Mosslight” is about quiet growth—the kind that doesn’t demand attention, but still transforms everything it touches.

Scientifically, mosses are among the oldest plant forms on Earth.
They don’t need sunlight to bloom.
They thrive in shadow, pulling moisture from the air, anchoring life in forgotten corners.
And some moss even glows—not with heat, not with flame, but with a soft bioluminescence or reflective shimmer.
It’s called triboluminescence, scattering light, or sometimes ghost glow in certain species.
Not all moss glows to the eye—but it holds light.
It carries it. Quietly. Softly. Steadily.

That’s what this song is about.

I don’t need to shine like a spotlight.
I don’t need to bloom for the crowd.
I just want to glow in my own way—in the places that feel like me.
Like moss in the shadows.
Alive. Healing. Rooted. Still growing.

Just a Mosslight

“I Talk to Satellites” is a love song born in a lonely October.
We didn’t meet on purpose. We weren’t looking for anything—just trying to feel a little less alone.

It started with kindness. A comment. A message.
We sent each other photos of clouds. Talked about tea and music and grief.
I never saw their face. But I felt seen.

This song is for the people who’ve met someone through the glow of a screen—
who found connection in a username,
who typed out their truth to a stranger
and slowly realized they were being heard.

Two years later, we’re still together.
And I still think kindness is a kind of signal.
Maybe even a kind of God.

I talk to satellites

Lanternbones is a hymn for the ones who carry light in the places that broke them. It drifts through ghosted memories and quiet strength, where every bone is a lantern—glowing not despite the darkness, but because of it. With ethereal textures, hushed vocals, and echoing harmonies, it feels like walking through a forest of what-ifs, guided only by the glow of what you survived.

“My Life Inside the Tree Rings” is a song about memory—
the kind that doesn’t live in words, but in time, silence, and survival.

It’s about leaving behind everything you knew,
starting over in a place where no one knew your name,
and realizing the past still lives inside you—
etched gently, like rings inside a tree.

I wrote this thinking about all the lives we carry quietly.
The storms we don’t speak of.
The scars that don’t ask for attention.
And how even if we forget… something always remembers.

There’s a map inside the tree rings.
It’s not always easy to read.
But it’s honest. And it’s yours.

My Life Inside the Tree Rings

“Aurora’s Dance” was born in the darkest winter of my life.
In the middle of a divorce. After surviving a stalker’s kidnapping, sexual assault, and walking through the court system alone.
My partner was distant, unreachable—and I was unraveling.

So I went to Alaska.
Not for healing. Not even for hope.
Just to be somewhere else.
To disappear—or maybe remember who I was without fear.

For three cold, silent months, I chased the Aurora across snowy roads, frozen forests, taking sketchy charter flights and loving my long sleepless nights.
I didn’t find answers.
But I found something wilder. Something alive.
I danced with the northern lights until I forgot his name—and remembered mine.

This song is for anyone who’s had to carry their pain into the wilderness
just to feel like they still exist.
It’s not about escape.
It’s about what stays with you—and what you finally let go.

Aurora’s Dance

Coldplay’s Ink always left something open—like a letter never finished, or a name whispered into the wind. It felt like heartbreak without blame. Like trying to trace someone who was never yours to hold.

Ink on the Wind is my answer to that ache.

Where Coldplay sang about chasing someone through time and maps and memories, I wanted to write about letting go. About what happens when you stop running and just watch the wind carry what’s left.

This song is for the words we were too scared to say.
For the names we never stopped writing in the air.
For the love that didn’t vanish—just drifted.

It’s not about getting them back, but letting them go because that’s what they need.

Ink on the Wind

Ash and Ember is not a phoenix story—it’s something older, wilder. This track carries the heat of grief, the smoke of memory, and the quiet rage of rebuilding. It’s for anyone who was told they were ruined when they were really remaking themselves. No perfect rise. Just roots that held through fire, breath that stayed through smoke, and a name no one could take.

A dream pop confession in flame and silence—where the forest doesn’t burn down, it becomes something else entirely.

Ash and Ember

“You Tried to Fix Me” is my response to Coldplay’s Fix You.
That song is beautiful—but I always felt like healing isn’t about someone saving you.
Sometimes, it’s about being seen without being solved.

This isn’t a song about blame. It’s about what happens when love comes with good intentions,
but not enough listening.
Not everyone needs to be rescued.
Some of us just need space to bloom—softly, quietly, and on our own terms.

I wasn’t broken.
Just buried.
Now blooming in the darkness.

You Tried to Fix Me

Kristen Banana writes songs like whispered confessions. True, raw and honest. 
Dream pop, emotional alt, and soft-spoken hauntings from a life rewritten more than once.
Survivor of violence, survivor of silence, believer in the glow of the soul. 
Not here to shine—just to stay.
🕯️ ethereal. powerful. honest.
New album Lanternbones and Ghosts out August 1 on all streaming services. Listen early on SoundCloud.

Lanternbones

kristen banana