If you had asked me before, I would have said deserts were the canvas for nature’s stark artistry, not the forge for my rebirth. But there I was, sprawled with the grit of the Nevada sands clinging to my skin, the tang of metal and fear sharp in the air. I had played with fire, danced with chance, and the desert was ready to claim its due. But as the chaos settled into a suffocating silence, a single, clear note from the depths of my memory rose above the din—the first note of the lullaby I had conjured from thin air for India when she was just a breath in this world.
That note was the tether that pulled me back from the edge, that whispered of unfinished symphonies and unwritten melodies. My hands, which had commanded keys and coaxed harmonies since I was no taller than the piano bench, were still. They ached to dance across ivory, to weave sound and emotion into a tapestry as vibrant as any life could be. Lying there, under the desert’s indifferent gaze, I realized the keys were my confidants, my instruments of creation—my way of touching the infinite.
The road to recovery was lined with echoes of music that I could not yet play. It taunted me, the ease with which I could once take a sliver of a tune and spin it into something rich and full. My fingers itched to recall the weight of keys beneath them, to recall the resistance and release, the immediate gratification of harmony responding to my touch. The piano waited for me, silent and patient in my family's living room, a steadfast companion through the years of my life's crescendos and decrescendos.
Rehabilitation was my metronome, tirelessly ticking away, measuring my slow progress back to the music. It was a grueling duet between body and soul, each day a measure, each small victory a note etched into the score of my recovery. My family watched, my friends supported, and my pets, ever-present, offered their silent, comforting companionship. They were the audience to my private recital, the quiet reclamation of my identity, note by painstaking note.
When at last I sat before the piano again, the black and white keys greeted me like old friends. My fingers may have faltered at first, but the music was there, waiting to be set free. And when it came, it was more than a melody—it was a declaration. I had returned, not just to the bench before the piano but to life itself. I played the lullaby for India, and the notes were more than a soothing balm—they were a promise. A promise of new beginnings, of melodies yet to come, of a future unfurling before me, vast and unpredictable as any ocean.
Phoenix Rising wasn't just a name; it was my anthem, my narrative set to the soundtrack of my life. The name Sage, with all its connotations of wisdom and earthiness, was a vestige of a life half-lived. Phoenix was a testament to my resilience, to the fiery spirit that had been tempered but not extinguished by adversity. It embodied the music that now flowed from my soul, music that had once been a solitary pursuit but had become my bridge to the world.
The desert had been a crucible, and I had emerged not just intact, but transformed. I was the melody that had endured, the harmony that thrived amidst discord. The stage of life awaited, and I, Phoenix Rising, was ready to play my part.
The moniker wasn’t plucked from thin air—it was etched into the marrow of my bones, a resonant identity that matched the pulse of my newfound life. The EDM music I forged from the embers of my past wasn’t just sound—it was alchemy, turning pain into euphoria, silence into symphonies. I became not just a creator of beats, but an architect of experiences, building cathedrals of sound that rose majestically from the dance floors.
This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.
Under the aegis of Vivian Bailey, known affectionately as Kermit from way back in her days at Camp Sealth as a counselor with me (I’d been Kerbal at the time),, I found more than a manager. I found a visionary who could see the tapestry of my music interwoven with the threads of the future. She championed the beat of my drum, the surge of my synthesizers, and the crescendo of my dreams. With her, the name Phoenix Rising became a prophecy fulfilled, the embodiment of a soul reborn through rhythm and bass.
By 27, the world knew my name—not as a whisper but as a shout that resonated from Tokyo's neon-lit streets to Ibiza's sun-kissed shores. I was the maestro at the helm of a global movement, the pied piper of the digital age. My soundscapes were the backdrops to millions of lives, the score to their memories. The stages I commanded were no longer mere platforms but altars where the secular met the divine, where every beat was a sermon, every drop a baptism.
The legacy I was crafting was etched in the annals of music history; my melodies became the heartbeats of a generation. Phoenix Rising was the zenith of a journey that had soared higher than any before, a testament to the human spirit's unyielding power. I was not just an artist—I was a force, a phenomenon, a celestial event that commanded the attention of every ear, every soul that thirsted for a beat to call their own.
And yet, with each roar of the crowd, with each city skyline that melted into dawn to the rhythm of my sets, I carried within me the quiet hum of a lullaby—the same one that had whispered hope to a broken body beneath a desert sky. It was the ghost of a melody that had cradled my sister, the gentle reminder that every phoenix's flight began with a fall.
The music industry bowed to the beat of my drum, and the world danced in my palm. They said I was the greatest—the most electrifying presence that had ever graced the turntables. My music was the pulse that drove the nightlife, the spark that ignited festivals. Phoenix Rising was a legend unfolding in real time, a saga sung in the key of light and sound.
Kermit, with her unerring instinct and her unwavering faith, was the architect behind the phoenix's flight. She wove my story into the fabric of the cosmos, ensuring that Phoenix Rising was not just a fleeting spark but a blazing sun that would never set. She pushed me beyond boundaries, beyond the very stratosphere of what was thought possible. Together, we didn't just chase dreams—we outran them, and the world raced along with us.
So here I stand, at 27, atop the world I’ve set to rhythm, living a reality that once existed only in the realms of fantasy. The stage is my domain, the arena where I am most fiercely alive, where the symphony of humanity comes together in a single, unified pulse. And when the lights dim, the beats slow, and the crowds disperse, the lullaby remains—a gentle echo that no fame, no fortune, no adulation can ever silence. It is the core of Phoenix Rising, the silent beat beneath the thunderous dance, the soul within the machine.
Looking back, I realize that life is a series of waves. We rise, we fall, we crash, we get back up. We're all just different ways for the universe to express itself, even if just for a little while. The accident wasn't the end; it was a transformation, a rebirth into something greater. It’s not the events that define us, but how we rise from them. Like a phoenix, I've risen, and as long as the music plays, I'll keep soaring.
In the quiet moments, when the lights dim and the last echo fades, I think of that wave. I am that wave, not just a piece of the ocean, but the ocean itself. And like the water, I’m still here, still moving, still alive. The desert tried to claim me, but instead, it gave birth to Phoenix Rising. And rise I shall, again and again, as long as the music calls.