Music

*My Heart Is Full* has always had a sense of being held in limbo.

A restrained beauty, like a breath you hold inside. But as I listened to it, one question kept coming back: why doesn’t it take off? Why does that “I will rise” remain so calm, when it’s about getting back up?

Perhaps there was a strength there that hadn’t yet found its form. So this version was born out of that sense of something missing. Not to correct, but to complete. To provide a counterbalance to the gentleness—a crack, a tension, a cry.

The striking passage—the one that “blows up”—isn’t there to put on a show. It’s there because sometimes, it explodes inside. And silence, as beautiful as it may be, is no longer enough.

This remix tells the story of a turning point. When elegance gives way to necessity. When getting back up is no longer an option, but an urgent need. When a whisper becomes a beat.

That’s what my life was like: a vast emptiness, silence, a blank wall…

When anxiety becomes so intense that it no longer hesitates to take away, one by one, the things we loved, it forces us to break, leaving us as willing victims of an unknown tormentor.

I wanted to be—or at least appear—strong, believing, like many children, that strength lay in one’s ability to suffer and hide one’s emotions.

So I hid everything, until there was nothing left of me, until I disappeared.

I had become the king of silence.

It took me 10 years to finish this song; fear can kill so many things…

Deep down, I was wrong—it takes the strength of a king to accept oneself.

This song… it was my dream… and my nightmare… I started writing it four years ago now, which means this song is older than “Another Edge,” my third single.

To give you an idea, the rough draft of this old composition was very short and sounded a lot like the first 30 seconds of the current track. I could already sense its exceptional potential, which is why I saw it as a dream and felt a desire to finish what might be my finest creation.

So why didn’t I finish it sooner? The answer is simple…

I was afraid…

So it remained on hold, and I found myself looking at this unfinished work with a sense of guilt, stuck in the face of my own limitations. That’s why it was also my nightmare.

So, to reassure myself, I finished less ambitious compositions—but inevitably, I liked them less, gradually losing respect for my own work. Over the past few years, I’ve noticed that we often deliberately remain in a state of negativity in an attempt to prepare ourselves for suffering and thus try to avoid it. The problem is that trying to avoid suffering is already a fear in itself. So, in trying to reassure myself, I didn’t allow myself to finish the most beautiful thing I could create—and thus to be proud of my creation, as well as of myself. As a result, this piece pretty well illustrates the limits I imposed on myself…

Depression has often been described to me as a phase during which one feels lost in the dark, unable to find the path back to the light. In my case, I feel more like I was trapped in the light of a streetlamp—a space I considered “safe”—surrounded by the darkness of my fears. That’s why I find the cover image I chose perfectly suited to this theme. Through its light, the streetlight represents that small space of “safety” in which I was trapped. Crossing that boundary meant facing the unknown—and thus potentially suffering—but also experiencing the satisfaction of overcoming it.

That’s what I did—not just for this song, but for the rest of my life. I left that zone of light to cross the boundaries my fears had set for me, going beyond those limits and expanding my aura of light.

The time I wrote “Reborn Again” coincided with a moment in my life when I finally realized that everything in our lives is in a state of constant balance, and that the world is imperfect—and I came to accept, with a sense of liberation, that I, too, was imperfect.

To be honest, at first, I hadn’t planned on finishing this piece; it was someone who inspired me to do so. I had played it for her when she.....

It was still in the “work in progress” stage to two friends, one of whom was a dancer. Whereas, to my ears, I considered this music less interesting than other pieces I’d made, he brought a very different perspective. That of a breakdancer, appreciating every change in rhythm as expressive colors in his own world.

Watching him dance to my music, I felt as though it was coming to life—and, above all, that I wasn’t doing all this for nothing. I was happy with the feeling that washed over me: that’s why I finished it—so he could keep dancing to it.

The title is a nod to the band Queen of the Stone Age. With their song “Unreborn Again,” they suggested that we should accept death as a natural end. “Reborn Again” therefore meant to me that life isn’t static—everything can be reborn once more.

From his lyrics, I got the feeling that 2Pac saw himself as a guy who didn’t give a damn about the law or society. But the more the song went on, the more that facade gave way to a man desperately searching for his place in the world.

I don’t know if what I’m saying is true, but I wanted to believe in this vision I had of him, and that’s the interpretation I tried to convey in this remix.

From that point on, a touching tenderness emerged from the lyrics, contrasting with the song’s provocative title.

Choosing this photo was important to me because it was practically the only one that highlighted a certain tenderness completely at odds with the image he projected of himself in the media—and thus to the world—as if it were a mask.

Beyond the provocation, for me, 2Pac is talking about life—and that life—how do you want it?

Imagine this: you’ve just finished composing your latest song, you’re “happy” with it, and you’ve posted it on social media.

A few days later, you’re home alone, a little tipsy (young people, don’t drink), you put that song—in this case, “Another Edge”—on your speakers, and you let the music carry you as you sit at your piano.

As you play, you gradually realize that what you’re playing sounds really good—so good that you end up thinking to yourself:

“Damn, I should’ve put what I’m playing right now in the song…”

Yeah, but I just released it a few days ago—it was finished. What do I do? Well, you do this.

P.S.: And you spend the rest of your days wondering whether it was a good idea to include piano in it after all ;).

First and foremost, I think this photograph is absolutely beautiful. It’s by Mike Hollman, an excellent photographer who gave me permission to use this image to illustrate my music. A huge thank you to him, by the way.

In this image, taken at Tokyu Plaza in Japan, I had the feeling that the young woman in the center was emerging from a mirror maze, and it was that detail that caught my attention—it brought back a memory from my youth.

When I was younger, I went to several summer camps, one of which—in England—made a particularly strong impression on me.

I was 15, an age when you’re really trying to figure yourself out. During those various camps, I experimented with different attitudes and behaviors, taking advantage of the anonymity to finally fit in socially—and that time, it worked out well; in the eyes of my peers, I was everything I’m not…

One day we all went to a haunted house near Big Ben.

Inside, a tall man with a beard and very long hair, dressed in a huge coat, started setting the mood by trying to scare us. Very quickly, I started making fun of him in front of the others, nicknaming him Hagrid… (How silly of me…). At the end of his explanation, he led us to a large, closed metal sliding door.

As he gave his final instructions—aimed at scaring us even more—I kept provoking him by acting cocky (to be honest, I’m telling you all this, but I’m not exactly proud of it).

At that moment, he stared at me intently, stepped toward me, grabbed me by the collar, opened the door, threw me violently into the room, and shut it. As the large door slammed shut, I turned around on reflex and saw my reflection—it was a mirror.

I then looked around; I could see myself everywhere in a room that seemed endless—I was in a hall of mirrors…

Anyone who has tried this “ride” knows how difficult it is to find your way in such an environment—especially since the light inside was scarce. I was alone, lost in the middle of this cold, infinite universe.

My false confidence quickly gave way to anxiety, as if I were being judged by all those countless reflections of myself that stared at me as if to pass judgment. I remember breaking down; panic took hold of me—I was lost, unsteady, and desperate.

In the distance, I heard human cries. I then set out to follow them to find my way. On my knees, I pulled myself up and tried to walk, leaning painfully against those mirrors… Then finally, I saw my friends; relieved, I quickly joined them, deciding to keep the truth of what had happened to myself. I put my mask back on and continued playing my role to perfection.

It wasn’t until years later that I understood what had happened; I should have realized that what I had just experienced was like a warning. In reality, before that event—and especially afterward, until I was 24—I was trapped in that hall of mirrors without even realizing it.

I think you understand: for me, depression is exactly that—this despair of no longer even knowing which path to take, because every one is a mirage. Under these conditions, hope gradually dwindles until it dies completely, leading to one’s own downfall simply because of the pride that refuses to accept who one is.

I composed this piece, “Another Edge,” as a symbol of crossing a threshold—which I think comes through in the music, as if, especially toward the end, something were struggling to grow, with difficulty, and finally break free from the cycle.

So this photo was very important to me—this young woman who had somehow managed to escape from this hall of mirrors; this time, it would be me. And that’s exactly what happened.

What had changed? Nothing, except that I had desires—and that was all that mattered.

It’s definitely the song I poured the most of myself into.

I put my whole soul into it; back then, nothing else mattered—it was all I had left. And when I listen to it, I really feel like it represents a huge cry from the heart, as if someone were trying to exist against all odds. Like taking flight toward something else, something longed for.

That’s why I chose this image: the person, with both feet firmly on the ground, looking up at this launchpad toward the sky. There’s great power emanating from this music, but also a lot of sensitivity—as if the two coexisted side by side.

It captures well the emotional turmoil I was going through at that time, when I was still overwhelmed by anxiety.

Despite that—and this is the most important thing, I think—I was grounded and I existed…

I started playing music at a young age. When I was 8, my mom wanted me to take up an activity, and that’s how I got into music.

When I was asked which instrument I wanted to play, I replied, “the drums.” Not because I liked that instrument more than any other, but because I was very shy, and I thought that behind the drums, no one would see me… (I hadn’t considered that I’d actually be the one everyone would hear the most).

Much later, around the age of 17, I discovered the piano, fell madly in love with it, and dreamed of becoming an orchestral composer.

It’s winter 2014, and I’m in my first year of sound engineering studies in Paris. Living in the suburbs, I had to take public transportation to get to class. I loved it—especially the RER; I felt like a real Parisian, just like my brother.

During those trips, I felt a unique atmosphere—the graffiti, the concrete, the tracks—a street culture radiated powerfully from that environment. If I had to describe it in musical terms, I’d say without hesitation it had a Mobb Deep—“Shook Ones”—vibe.

The ride lasted about thirty minutes, which I spent on my old 3GS (which doesn’t exactly make me feel young), using an app called Beat Maker—nothing more, nothing less than a 16-pad sampler playing sound loops.

As I browsed through the sounds, I noticed two that blended particularly well, in my opinion, and that I enjoyed playing aimlessly.

It was at that very moment, without realizing it, that the creation of what would become my first real composition began.

Months passed, and then something turned my life upside down. One evening, while I was alone at my parents’ house, I had an anxiety attack—a terrible, extremely intense, and uncontrollable one—so severe that I suddenly understood the painting *The Scream* much better.

I’d already experienced anxiety attacks before, so I naturally told myself, “It’ll pass by tomorrow.” The next day, unsurprisingly, that latent anxiety was still there. Why? Why do I feel this pain in my mind? Why isn’t it going away like it usually does?

Because this time, nothing had foreshadowed it; nothing had triggered it—or at least nothing I could discern—so potentially, anything could have been the cause: that’s how a phobia of fear itself is created.

Overnight, I stopped doing anything that might trigger a similar experience, sweeping from my life not only every negative event but also every positive one—any shift in my state of mind that might lead to a panic attack—creating a life without surprises, without wonder, without joy, without sorrow, without anything.

Little by little, you realize you can no longer do the simple things you used to do, and you also watch yourself lose the things you loved, as if trapped in a room that’s shrinking and being emptied of your belongings.

I often felt as though this person was taking everything from me; I was torn with every concession, but I was forced to make them.

One of those concessions was giving up playing the piano; I had to, because I was in a passionate relationship with him, and with every piece I played, I felt a flood of emotions, I couldn’t risk a feeling of sadness triggering anxiety in me.

But I suppose passion is stronger than anything, because a few months later, realizing I couldn’t compose orchestral music in that state, I happened to listen again to the two short loops on my phone and spontaneously created a piece of music using them. That piece of music is “White Wall.”

The white wall—that raw concrete, bare and unadorned, that vast, empty, smooth space, beautiful simply by virtue of its existence, just for what it is, without artifice. I loved this minimalist image in the simple sense of representing a being, and who better than Le Corbusier to illustrate this vision through the photograph I chose from his body of work.

Later, my father would say, “It’s you standing before the white wall—the empty wall of your life that you must fill.” I think he was the one who was right—filling that white wall, making a life for myself—in the state I was in, it was impossible, and therefore terrifying, like a blank page for a writer who has no confidence in their talent; to start writing would be to take the risk of failing...

But in reality, the advantage of a blank page—or a blank wall—is that you can put whatever you want on it.