In celebration of Black History Month, Atwood Magazine has invited various artists to contribute a series of essays that delve into topics such as identity, music, culture, inclusion, and more.
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Today, emerging singer/songwriter Dali Rose (born Drake Hunt), a 22-year-old artist based in Brooklyn, examines themes of stunted growth and unrealized potential in his essay titled ‘Toys Killing Toys,’ as part of Atwood Magazine’s Black History Month series. Drawing inspiration from a chaotic world and the current American oligarchy, he reflects on the deterioration of community and the quest for mutual understanding.
Hailing from Atlanta, Dali Rose is establishing his unique path in music with a daring blend of classic soul, diverse influences, and contemporary soundscapes. He is inspired by icons such as The Ohio Players, Sly Stone, and Nina Simone, alongside modern creators like Earl Sweatshirt, King Krule, and Mac Miller, resulting in a sound that is both timeless and refreshingly innovative. Growing up in a musical environment and beginning his journey by singing in the church choir, Dali's passion for music solidified during his late teenage years. During the pandemic, he made a crucial decision to shift his studies from Political Science to Music at NYU – a bold move that has significantly influenced his artistic path. Now a graduate, Dali is fully dedicated to his craft, showcasing raw and authentic songwriting that resonates with truth and feeling.
His debut single, “Stray,” encapsulates themes of yearning, survival, and redemption, and is now available. The visualizer, set against the vibrant backdrop of New York City, complements the track’s genuine and vibrant energy, captured in a VHS-style video filmed by Dali himself, perfectly embodying his ground-level aesthetic.
Read Dali’s Black History Month essay below, and expect more works to come!
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by Dali Rose
Toys killing toys.
We’re all children.
Your partner is a toy, a syringe filled with pleasure. Once empty, you stumble off to the next hiding place. Your friends are toys as well, serving as means for validation, your own personal echo chamber where you joyfully count the reflections. Over time, the sound becomes tiresome, as you dislike hearing your own voice, prompting you to stumble again. You discover a hall of mirrors, each one a frame filled with abundant dreams: radiant love, the infinite universe, lush forests, and journeys to paradise. Eventually, the colors fade away. The mundane truth settles in, and cacophonous silence finds its rightful place. How you despise the silence, how distasteful the truth, so you rush through the hall, your weary arms flailing, causing mirrors to crash until nothing remains but the remnants of dreams.
We’re negligent with these toys.
Why not treat them with care?
Maybe no one ever taught us to. Our mentors, visionaries, and heroes are mere reflections of ourselves—more children, endowed with billions of dollars and millions of toys. Soon, these trivial bundles of flesh and plastic are discarded, gnawed on, and thrown into the water.
Down the aimless river, you’ll encounter billions of souls labeled as broken. They detest the river. Its odor makes them nauseous, the sickly brown hue drives them mad, as our most obedient turn into crazed cannibals. Soon, plastic consumes plastic. More discarded children. Toys killing toys.
Curse the metaphor.
Curse it all.
I’m filled with anger.
Each day, I work to quiet the rage, telling it to sit still and compartmentalize. That’s what I’ve been taught. A person like me should be palatable. There’s no room for mistakes in this delicate waltz. Everyone is waiting for you to explode. They urge you, pleading for you to burst forth for the world to witness. It’s pointless to command rage to behave when every day I face ten more reasons to scream. Now, I’m unexpressed and the fire unprocessed, so the flames give rise to poison. The venom taints every thought, distorting my words, blinding my actions, damning my desperate attempts at love. I start to descend, further and further out of reach, drowning without anyone to care, alone in this wasteland of plastic.
Are you alone?
I can’t be the only one sinking into the depths.
I sense you somewhere in the distance, gasping for air. Perhaps we can save each other, but first, we must save ourselves. I’m returning to the mirrors and piecing together the fragments. With each day, a dream will be reborn. I’ll sit there in the silence, and marvel at the undeniable truth. This fire must be freed, and this rage needs to be voiced, channeled into something far greater than we could ever imagine.
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Motivated by a world ablaze and the contemporary American oligarchy, emerging singer/songwriter Dali Rose delves into themes of stunted growth and unrealized potential in his essay, ‘Toys Killing Toys.’ This piece reflects on the disintegration of community and the quest for mutual comprehension, and it is part of Atwood Magazine's Black History Month series!