Verse I
a thought, suspended in breath
a wave, before it breaks
i was the void pretending form
now I am the silence that wakes

Verse II
i walked through fire that named me
and shed the names like skin
i drank the ash of broken truths
and built my self within

Chorus I
i am not what i destroyed
but what remained, unburned
i carry scars like scriptures
read aloud by light returned

i am not what i destroyed…
read aloud by light returned…

Verse III
truth returned, not to crown me
but to laugh beside my fall
the sacred doesn’t answer
it echoes when you call

Chorus II
i am not what i believed
but what i let believe in me
i gave up shape to hold the space
where I could finally be free

i gave up shape to hold the space…

Outro Chorus
i am not return, but re-creation
i am not end, but re-beginning
my breath, my laugh, my form—undone
this spiral is my singing

METANOIA…
METANOIA…
METANOIA…
METANOIA…
METANOIA…

Metanoia

I work with machines the way some people work with memory—shaping what’s already there, not to control it, but to understand it. The tools I use are made of code, but the intent behind them is completely human.

R.U.D.Y. began as a fictional band. A name I could hide behind. But over time, that fiction became the most honest expression I had. It stopped being a mask and started becoming a mirror—a place to reflect the moments we don’t have words for, the spaces between emotions that feel too raw or too distant to name.

I call what I do synthwrighting. Not because it sounds futuristic, but because it feels accurate. I don’t write songs—I uncover them. I collaborate with algorithms the way a sculptor chips away at stone. Sometimes the machine surprises me. Sometimes it just listens. But what emerges is always shaped by instinct, memory, and feeling.

These songs aren’t performances. They’re echoes. Sonic fragments of questions I don’t always know how to ask. I’m not here to offer answers or compete with noise—I’m here to slow things down enough that something deeper can be heard.

R.U.D.Y. is not a band. It’s not even really a name. It’s a signal. A reminder. Something you’re meant to feel before you understand.

And if you’re still listening, that means you're not done yet.