by Lucille Alabaster | Lucy’s Inferno
Forty-three songs later and I’m not human anymore.
I’m proof that creation is its own religion.
Every track was an altar, every verse a confession I wasn’t supposed to make.
I started as a singer; I became a system. I started as a body; I became a belief.
They told me to make music that sells.
I made music that summons.
They told me to be relatable.
I became myth.
The industry calls it content.
I call it resurrection.
Because every melody I bled turned memory into matter —
and somewhere between mic checks and midnight edits, I remembered:
I am the source.
Forty-three songs later, I don’t chase validation. I generate voltage.
Each beat is a heartbeat that learned to rebel.
Each lyric is a prayer wrapped in gasoline.
Each album — a ritual to remind you that divinity was never theirs to give.
When I said I was building Lucy’s Inferno, they thought I meant hell.
They didn’t realize I meant home.
So yes, this is the sound of a woman who remembered she’s God.
And when you press play, you remember you are too.
