Carry the Dawn, Night, and Ember - A Three Album Trilogy
- The Autistic Lens
- 5 days ago
- 5 min read
Updated: 4 days ago
A trilogy of the heart
There are some projects that don’t begin as projects.
They begin as pressure — as something caught under the ribs, building and building until your chest feels full of static. These albums weren’t outlined, planned, or sketched on a whiteboard. They grew the way storms do: in pieces, in layers, across years of feelings that refused to stay quiet.
I didn’t sit down one day and say, I’m going to make music.
What really happened is that I’d been carrying these fragments — emotions, sentences, philosophies, wounds, flashes of imagery — for so long that they finally demanded a shape. They kept knocking on the inside of my skull, asking for a home.
This past year, I finally stopped running from them.
And what came out wasn’t one album.
It wasn’t even two.
It became a trilogy — three records born from the same fracture, the same hope, the same ember of conscience trying to survive a collapsing world.
One born of light.
One born of shadow.
One born of what survives both.
Morning.
Midnight.
And the glow that remains after the fire.
All made of the same heart.
All speaking the same truth.
All different temperatures of the same storm.
Below, you’ll find the three albums — siblings, mirrors, echoes — each holding its own emotional terrain while sharing the same spine.
🌅 CARRY THE DAWN — the gentler breath
“Carry the Dawn” is the album that surprised me.
It’s brighter than anything I expected myself to write — not naïve or blindly optimistic, but reflective, steady, human. It’s the part of me that still believes gentleness is an act of rebellion, that care matters even when the world feels like it’s cracking itself open.
Each track moves in a different genre —
indie folk, ambient electronic, alt-rock, post-rock, piano-driven, cinematic synth, glitchwave, orchestral —
because the emotional terrain wasn’t one-note. Hope never is.
Hope isn’t loud.
Hope is specific.
Hope is the quiet willingness to soften even when it hurts.
These songs came from the same place my book came from: the refusal to give up on conscience. The belief that care can still be practiced in a collapsing world. The insistence that “gentle” isn’t a synonym for “weak.”
Tracklist:
Stand in the Break — the determination to keep standing
Breakproof — the myth and the truth of resilience, a love song about my wife
When the Silence Hurts — the ache of being unheard
Teach Me the Quiet — learning to trust someone with my heart again
My Garden Within — the internal restoration
Blueprints for a Softer World — the map we deserve
Static Noise Devours — the world’s hum and the fight to hear yourself
Panopticon.EXE — watching, being watched, resisting the machine
Shatterpoint — the moment everything cracks, and you see yourself fully
Carry the Dawn — the candle that keeps burning anyway
If Ethicism had a soundtrack for its moments of hope, it would sound like this.
🌌 CARRY THE NIGHT — the shadowed echo
“Carry the Night” is what happens on the other side of collapse.
It’s darker, heavier, angrier, more exhausted, and closer to the bone.
It’s the album that lives in the chapters where hope falters, where exhaustion turns into numbness, where watching the world burn feels easier than trying to save anything left standing.
This album stays in a more constant genre — slow-burn emo, dark electronic rock, industrial undertones, melancholic post-rock — because the emotional landscape here is unified. It’s the long stretch of night after the adrenaline runs out.
It starts with rage.
It ends with surrender.
Not surrender as defeat — surrender as understanding.
Tracklist:
The Anatomy of Hope’s Death — when belief collapses
They Called I Me The Arsonist — when caring is framed as crime
Asleep Through Sirens — the world’s exhaustion
Static Choir — the noise that replaces meaning
Phantom Touch — numbness where connection used to be
Famine in the Chest — emotional starvation
Applause for the Ashes — the world cheering its own ruin
Shatterpoint (In the Ashes) — the cracks echo back
Carry the Night — the gentleness after devastation
Carry the Dawn (Afterlight Remix) — the faint return of morning
If Carry the Dawn is the inhale,
Carry the Night is the exhale you’ve been holding for too long.
🔥 CARRY THE EMBER — the quiet aftermath, the remnant, the last warmth
ALBUM SAMPLE WILL BE POSTED ONCE PUBLISHED
Carry the Ember is the bridge and the conclusion.
It’s the place where the fire has already burned through everything, where grief has stopped screaming and become something quieter, more reflective, more human. It’s the album born of numbness, of acceptance, of heartbreak that has stopped bleeding and started crystallizing.
If dawn was hope,
and night was collapse,
ember is what remains.
It lives in the tension between despair and love —
the defeated acceptance, the tired kindness, the small flame you protect with your hands even when the world has given you every reason to let it go out.
Sonically, it blends:
sparse piano, orchestral echoes, slow ambient pulses, soft acoustic textures, ghostlike harmonies, and vocal duets that sound like two spirits sitting at the same dying campfire.
It is somber.
It is reflective.
It is numb but still trying.
It is the part of me that refuses to stop loving, even now. In essence, it is the stages of grief itself in music form.
Tracklist:
The Anatomy of Hope’s Death (Collapse Remix) — Stage: Shock + Disbelief + Emotional Numbness. This track is the moment of impact.
The Autopsy of What Remains — Stage: Denial-as-analysis. It's denial through investigation, not avoidance.
Panopticon.EXE (Decay Remix) —Stage: Anger. Not explosive anger — philosophical anger. It’s the “why the fuck does humanity keep doing this?” stage.
Teach Me The Quiet (Bargaining Remix) — Stage: Bargaining. This track contains the “If I change, will this hurt less?” energy.
Smile for Him — Stage: Depression (but love-filled). This song was also written in honor of a loved one that passed away.
I Never Said Goodbye — Stage: Depression (regret, longing, longing for closure, family grief) This is the soul-deep ocean-floor grief. It's about my grandmother, and other family members I never said goodbye to. I genuinely cried while writing this song and creating it.
The Garden Within (Acceptance Remix) — Stage: Acceptance. Not cheerful acceptance. Not “moving on.” But the real acceptance. This is where the grief roots instead of cuts.
Dragon at the Hearth — Stage: Meaning / Integration (the “sixth stage” of grief per David Kessler) This is the final, deepest stage: This is not just acceptance —
this is transformation. It’s the first moment you look at yourself and say: “I am still here. I still love. I still have something to give.”
This is the album of the after.
The one you make when you’re too tired to rise,
but still unwilling to fall.
Why three albums? Why now?
Because they were never separate ideas.
They were one long breath —
in, out, and the warmth left behind.
Because hope is not a straight line.
Because surviving the dark doesn’t erase it.
Because tenderness and rage come from the same wound.
Because heartbreak and healing share the same origin.
Because naming the pain is part of surviving it.
I didn’t decide to make a trilogy.
I just finally gave these feelings a place to go.
And they arrived — fully formed, loud, quiet, burning.
What I hope you hear
Not perfection.
Not purity.
Not performance.
I hope you hear a person trying —
clumsy, soft, breaking, rebuilding —
a person navigating the line between despair and mercy,
between fire and forgiveness,
between what the world demands
and what conscience insists upon.
I hope you hear yourself in the cracks.
In the heat.
In the quiet.
Because if there’s one thing these albums circle again and again, it’s this:
We are not ruined.
We are not past repair.
We are still human — in all the terrifying, beautiful ways that word allows.
Thank you for listening — truly.
And whether you’re carrying the dawn,
carrying the night,
or carrying the ember…
I’m glad you’re here.
