It’s incredible how the past never truly leaves us. Some memories, long buried in the depths of my subconscious, resurface when I least expect them—like forgotten vinyl records pulled from dusty crates, their melodies still rich with meaning.
Lately, as I observe the relentless evolution of artificial intelligence and the ever-accelerating march of technology, I find myself reflecting on something far more profound: the sheer brilliance of the human experience. We are so intricately made, yet often take our essence for granted. Unlike AI, which is a product of code and computation, we are shaped by emotions, memories, and the unexplainable magic of existence itself.
Growing up in Queens, New York, my youth was drenched in an energy so vibrant, so deeply wholesome, that when I look back, it almost feels surreal. But I know I’m not just romanticizing the past—those times were genuinely golden. The atmosphere, the people, the very vibration of life then was different, purer. And forgive me if I sound abstract, but it haunts me in the best way.
I used to wonder why older folks would reminisce about their “good old days,” yearning for a time they could never reclaim. Now, I understand. Memories are more than just recollections; they are living testaments to what we shared with others. And when a moment is remembered collectively—when an old friend recalls the same laugh, the same adventure, the same song playing on the radio during a late-night drive—it becomes immortal.
But how often does that happen now? How many of today’s youth will remain friends with those they knew as children? It seems like friendships are fleeting, attention spans are fractured by countless distractions, and the deep bonds we once built over time have been replaced by temporary digital connections.
Back in my teenage years, we had our insecurities, sure, but they drove us to improve—to hit the gym, to sharpen our minds, to embrace the journey of self-discovery. And the fun we had! Those were times when adventure didn’t come from a screen but from the streets, the parks, the music, the people. I thank God for embedding those experiences deep in my soul. They shaped me.
Writing, to me, is sacred. It holds a different kind of power compared to video or conversation. Words, once laid down, penetrate the subconscious, leaving an imprint that lingers far longer than any fleeting algorithm-driven content. That’s why I’m committing myself to writing relentlessly here—because some things can’t be conveyed through video alone. Some thoughts demand solitude, deep reflection, and the rhythmic tapping of keys as they spill onto the page.
I once heard someone complain that not enough people were reading their work. The response they received stayed with me: Write from your soul. Don’t worry about who sees it. Someone will, in time. And when they do, they’ll feel it. Imagine—people today still read books written centuries ago, immersing themselves in words that continue to resonate. That’s the power of storytelling, of documentation, of preserving one’s truth.
Before I even knew of YouTube, before it even existed, I had my art and my writing—my first true loves. No need to chase trends, worry about views, or self-censor to fit into a politically correct box. Expression, when it’s pure, is limitless. And that’s what I aim to recapture.
I think back to those summer nights in Queens—riding bikes, skateboards, or even my unicycle through the streets, surrounded by friends, our laughter mixing with the warm night air. We weren’t causing trouble; we were simply absorbing the energy of the city, living in a time when everything felt possible.
And what triggered this flood of nostalgia? A song. A seemingly small thing—a track by a group called Voyage, titled I Love You, Dancer. It brought back one night in particular.
There were three of us: Joey, Kevin, and me. Teenagers, carefree, riding through the city in Joey’s mother’s white Toyota Corolla. We drove for hours, aimlessly, not reckless but weightless, floating in the moment. And then that song came on.
For a while, no one spoke. We just felt it. The music, the night, the summer air—everything was in perfect harmony. It was magic.
Queens was different then. It still had its character, its charm—before the crack epidemic transformed it, before the vibrancy faded into something unrecognizable. And the music? It was richer, more soulful, unifying in a way today’s homogenized, algorithm-friendly tracks could never replicate. The songs of the past weren’t just background noise; they were the soundtracks to our lives, embedding themselves in our souls, tying us together forever.
I truly believe that even after we leave this physical world, the energy we create—especially the love we share—lives on.
As I write this, the music of the ’70s and early ’80s plays softly in the background, stirring even more memories. I have so many stories to tell—of Harlem, of Washington Heights, of my childhood mischief, my teenage romances, my triumphs and mistakes. Some will be funny, some heartbreaking, and yes, some might be slightly X-rated (I’ll give you a heads-up).
But through it all, one truth remains: life is wonderful.
And I am deeply grateful—to every person who has been a part of my journey, to every memory that remains vivid in my mind. I will share them all, in my own voice, in my own way.
Welcome to my world.
I promise that we will go deeper…
LanceScurv
