I reached the goal.
I got the Rolls Royce.
I got the Rolex.

But I was disappointed.
Because even with both in hand,
I still felt empty.

We build towers that reach the stars, but we cannot reach each other to make peace. We stretch bridges across oceans, but we cannot stretch our hearts toward one another.

And still—some keep trying. Some keep planting. Some keep reaching. Some keep believing.

Music has a special power. It soothes babies who don’t yet understand words. It calms animals who respond to gentle sounds in ways we can see but can’t always explain. And teenagers—who are at such a critical, often confusing time in their lives—are deeply drawn to music. It helps them feel understood, less alone, and more peaceful.

If music can reach all these hearts—young, old, human, animal—why can’t it also help us come together during hard times?

When I lived in Beirut, my room opened onto a balcony. From there, I could hear music drifting up from the street—accordion players, singers, laughter. This usually happened at night, when the city softened and the melodies floated more freely. I would step outside and watch them from above, letting the music carry me away. For a moment, I forgot my problems. For a moment, I was somewhere else.

Have you ever heard of Armenia?
It’s a small country that many don’t know about.
A place with proud, kind people—often forgotten by the world.
But Armenia matters.

I’m at the point in my life where I have almost no one left to share my successes with—am I being selfish? Most of the boys—my brothers in spirit—are gone. The men I grew close to, who stood by me through thick and thin, have passed on. And I miss them more than words can say.

Reflections on mistakes made, love missed, and the chance to share it again.