You speak of rhythm like it is a weapon.

I have heard that language before—on decks slick with rain and blood, where men beat drums against their own ribs to keep fear from swallowing them whole. They told themselves the cadence made them strong. That movement meant freedom. That if they could keep time, they could keep control.

They were wrong.

You are a man forged in sound, Ram Jam. Born where voices rise to survive, where rebellion learns to dance so it will not be crushed. You believe myth is armor because you have seen belief keep people standing when the world leaned hard on their throats. You move, and others follow. You strike the floor and call it awakening.

But understand this: rhythm only matters while the ground remains beneath your feet.

The sea does not keep time.

When the tide comes in, it does not care for gospel or blues, for poetry shouted into brick-lined streets or rebellion wrapped in melody. The ocean does not clap. It does not sway. It does not answer the call to live loudly or feel deeply.

It simply rises.

I have watched drummers try to outplay the storm—hands raw, tempo frantic, insisting that motion itself would hold the world together. I have seen dancers leap as the deck tilted beneath them, convinced momentum could outrun gravity.

The water took them mid-step.

You believe you liberate the spirit. I collect what remains when spirit learns its limits. You awaken people to feeling. I introduce them to pressure—real pressure—the kind that collapses lungs and silences even the loudest song.

You are rebellion given form.
I am inevitability.

Your myth is armor forged of sound and self-belief, hammered into shape by crowds who want to feel alive. Mine was written in salt and darkness, carved into bone by a depth that does not bargain. You wear your legend outward, loud and defiant.

I wear mine like the cold—unseen until it is inside you.

You want to disrupt the ordinary. I erase it. You remind people to reclaim rhythm. I remind them that all rhythms end. Even the strongest beat eventually falters when the body that carries it runs out of air.

This match is not a stage. It is not a street corner or a smoky room where energy feeds energy and noise becomes power. It is the edge of the world, where the music echoes once—and then is swallowed whole.

You will come at me with movement, with fire, with the certainty that expression itself is victory. You will believe that if you keep striking, keep flowing, keep believing, you can force the moment to bend.

But the tide does not bend to rhythm.

It drags it under.

Your sound will scatter across the surface, beautiful for a heartbeat. Then the deep will close its mouth. No applause. No encore. Just silence heavy enough to crush myth into memory.

You are here to awaken something in people.

I am here to remind them what sleeps beneath that awakening.

Because when rhythm meets the abyss, only one of them remains.

And it is not the song.

The tide always comes for you… and I am the tide.