★ . 𓋰 OO5 : A LETTER TO IAN'S FUTURE SELF .ᐟ
to the 2027 version of ian, a year from now,
man, i really hope you’re reading this with a stupidly expensive iced coffee in your hand, a completely clear schedule for the next twenty-four hours, and a spine that isn't currently shaped like a shrimp from lurking over a mixing board for a decade straight. if you opened this envelope at lynk con and immediately rolled your eyes because you forgot you even wrote it, that’s completely fair. 2026 me is sitting at the kitchen table in the pitch dark, watching the city lights flicker outside the glass, and wondering if the view looks any less heavy from where you’re standing in 2027.
let's talk about the giant elephant in the room first -- the contracts. by now, the whole september deadline drama is ancient history. since we officially signed those lines and committed our lives to this extension, i need to know if the executives actually held up their end of the bargain or if you're currently planning a minor boardroom mutiny. did we get the extra production credits we practically lost our voices arguing for? is the new pay distribution looking a lot less depressing on the statements? more importantly, tell me you actually forced them to fund our medical budget so you aren't trying to survive high-intensity dance practices on vibes and a prayer. if you let them slide on any of those clauses just to get the meetings over with, i’m going to find a way to time-travel just to hit you with a rolled-up magazine, okay?
but honestly, beyond the logistics and the headaches, i just wanna know how everyone is doing. when i look around the studio right now, all i see is a group of people who have given absolutely everything they have to keep this ship afloat. i look at the guys -- at the way we still laugh until our ribs ache over some stupid inside joke in the middle of a grueling fourteen-hour rehearsal, or the way someone will silently leave a meal on the desk when they know i haven't eaten all day -- and it makes everything worth it. i hope that bond hasn't changed. i hope you’re still finding those quiet and ordinary moments to just be regular people together.
please tell me you’ve stopped playing the lonely hero, though. i know your first instinct whenever the company drops a chaotic scheduling mess is to just shut up, pull your black hoodie over your face, and absorb the blow before it touches anyone else in the group. you’ve spent years acting like a human shield, thinking that if you carry the brunt of the exhaustion, the others won't have to bleed for it. but they aren't kids anymore. they have voices, they have muscles, and they care about you a lot more than you like to admit. let them carry a corner of the couch for once. you are far too tired to keep holding up the sky by yourself, and you aren't a machine that doesn't need its battery checked.
creatively, i hope you're keeping things beautifully messy. don't let the corporate polish dilute the actual music we want to make. keep messing with those indie tracks after hours, and stay deeply annoying during tracking sessions. your ear is one of the best tool the team has, so keep using it to steer the ship toward something genuine.
i'll stop writing before this turns into a literal novel and you end up recycling the paper out of pure boredom. just stay dependable, keep that dry sense of humor intact so the industry doesn't drain your spirit, and remember why we keep showing up to work every single morning. if the group is happy, the music feels real, and your own mind is finally quiet, then we did just fine ian. see you on the flip side of 2027?
