There’s dust on the boots I couldn’t fill
Scars on my knuckles from the life I tried to kill
Mirror shows a man who almost disappeared
But steel in my spine says the mission’s clear

Days I lost, nights I bled
Voices saying I should just play dead

I’m not gone—I’m reloading
Mind’s reset, heart’s exploding
Past can burn, bridges foldin’
This ain’t the end—I’m reloading

Carved a grave in every wasted year
Buried my purpose under doubt and fear
But discipline’s the hammer breaking rusted chains
Tomorrow’s target’s mine—I’ll take the reins

Days I lost, nights I bled
Voices saying I should just play dead

I’m not gone—I’m reloading
Mind’s reset, heart’s exploding
Past can burn, bridges foldin’
This ain’t the end—I’m reloading

Reload the discipline
Reload the mind
Reload the love I almost left behind
Reload the mission
Reload the plan
Reload the man I know I still am

I’m not gone—I’m reloading
Mind’s reset, heart’s exploding
Past can burn, bridges foldin’
This ain’t the end—I’m reloading


Reloading

Pulled from the reservation to get an education far from home
Scars of desolation, seeking annihilation, dope mojo
Met you at the station, rehabilitation, methadone
I clung in desperation, you dispensed salvation to my soul

- Pilar Dolorosa, Pilar Gloriosa, Amazona
- Pilar Lagrimosa, Pilar Furiosa, Hiawatha

Where there's no inspiration there's constant altercation, weeds are sown
I shrank from affection, you found a new direction on your own

sheet music https://drive.google.com/file/d/17BlgSCjwQc90oeeZHzfaGqhlJQYi7JZM/view?usp=drive_link
3.1

PILAR

Aporia is a confrontation with the void—the kind of album that doesn’t just play, it unravels you. It starts with a controlled chaos, pulling apart the scaffolding of thought, then drags you deeper into the soft, distorted pulse of dissolution. You don’t listen to this record so much as experience it—your sense of time slips, your body forgets where it ends, and your mind keeps circling questions it can’t answer.

The sound is heavy but never violent. It’s cerebral, textured, haunting. Guitars melt into ambience, drums skip and fracture, and the voice—resonant and human—threads through it all like a tether you’re not sure you trust. It feels ancient and futuristic at once. Cold yet intimate. Like you’re remembering something that hasn’t happened yet.

By the end, you’re not the same. You’ve stood in the place where thought gives up, and you’ve felt the silence stare back.

Aporia doesn’t give you peace.
It gives you the beauty of falling apart—on purpose.

Ash of the Real

Flesh of Logic

Noesis

The Axon Reversal

Krisis

Theorem Zero

Untimeness

Dreaming The Bone

Apokatastasis

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.

Reloading

R.U.D.Y

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