In my small home office, the soft hum of my computer blended with the rhythmic tapping of my fingers on the keyboard. I was deep into a session of excavating memories buried within the depths of old hard drives, taking breaks every now and then to build in the virtual realm of Voxels. To keep the momentum going, I streamed a vast array of tunes from YouTube, allowing the music to form a background tapestry of sound that accompanied my every movement. During one such break, I found myself lost in the endless scrolling of Instagram. My eyes momentarily fell upon a story posted by my cousin Cheez – a video featuring our boy Ricky DJ’ing inside his apartment. I felt an immediate rush of nostalgia surge through my veins, compelling me to look up Ricky’s YouTube channel, RickySClass, and begin playing some of his old mixes. As the infectious beats of his AfroMix poured through my Sony headphones, I was transported back to a time when Ricky played a vital role in my life. A kind and genuine soul, he had always treated me like family. He never hesitated to share my music with others, offering his support in whatever form it took, even becoming the fourth and final member of one of my first bands, Cheap Products. In those days, our rehearsal space was no more than the cramped confines of my childhood bedroom, but it was enough for us to chase our dreams. The familiar tunes wrapped around me like a warm embrace, and I found comfort in the knowledge that I had always had a support system to rely on. It was only when alcohol cast its dark shadow over my life that I had strayed from the path and lost my way. As I sat in my computer chair, the reassuring beats of Ricky’s AfroMix invigorated me to continue piecing together the fragments of my journey. The screens flickered as I transitioned back to work, immersing myself in the digital archives of my past. My fingers danced on the keyboard, driven by the pulsating rhythm of the music.

Similar Posts