The Oldest Song

Why We Wrote This

You are a goatsherd on a ridge above ancient Ugarit, watching your flock settle into the blue-grey hush of evening.
The air is dry enough to ring.
You map the sky the way your father taught you—stick pressed into dust, string pulled taut between two stars whose names you carry in your mouth like seeds.

Your finger twangs the fiber.
A low note trembles through the stick, through your hand, through the ridge itself.
You pause.
Something in you recognizes the vibration before you understand it.

You tighten the string.
A higher note.
You add another.
Then another, lower, carved further down the stick.
The world suddenly organizes itself in ratios:
distance, tension, pitch, pattern.

You aren’t composing.
You’re discovering reality is not random;
identity comes in ratios;
and that alignment has a sound.

The Oldest Song isn’t self-help.
It’s more ancient than that.
It’s the reminder that timelines don’t move you forward—you tune sideways.
And every choice becomes a string.
Tightened, loosed, plucked, resonant.

You’ve always known the world runs on pattern.
You just needed the chord.