Listening to lumin’s “On My Own” feels a bit like finding a thoughtfully folded note tucked into the spine of a library book you weren’t looking for. It unfolds a specific kind of disorientation, that modern ache of feeling adrift while supposedly surrounded by connection points. Lumin, a solo creator working out of Hurst, crafts this sentiment not with grand despair, but with a finer, more intricate emotional weave.
The track maps out that very particular landscape of indecision – standing at a crossroads where every path seems simultaneously inviting and treacherous. There’s a palpable vulnerability here, a raw confession of not knowing which way is up, or even if ‘up’ is the direction one ought to be heading. It’s underscored by guitar work that’s genuinely memorable; it possesses a kind of determined brightness that pushes against the lyrical undertow. Sometimes that main riff hits my ear like the determined green shoot of a weed pushing through cracked pavement – insistent, oddly cheerful despite the surroundings.
Lumin leans into the ambiguity, the ‘shades of gray’ that colour most real internal struggles. This isn’t about shouting into the void, but rather, acknowledging the complex push-pull between wanting guidance and contemplating the starkness of genuine self-reliance. The mention of nature’s constancy, the celestial backdrop to this personal storm, lands strangely. It reminds me, oddly, of those medieval charts mapping the heavens – immensely detailed, beautiful, but offering a cosmic reassurance that doesn’t necessarily make navigating the immediate, messy earth any easier. The male vocals carry this tension well, conveying earnest searching without tipping into overt angst.
It leaves you contemplating the search itself. Does clarity ever arrive like a perfectly delivered package, or is finding footing within the confusion the truest form of finding home?
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