Scrolling for Love came out of a pretty blunt reality: after being single for more than five years and living in a place where I rarely cross paths with other gay men, the only place to meet people is online. And honestly? It feels wrong most of the time.
Everything about modern dating apps feels engineered, curated profiles, photos that look nothing like real life, endless swiping, people disappearing mid-conversation, and a whole ecosystem built around selling the fantasy of connection. It’s transactional, shallow, and at times completely scammy. I don’t meet people in real life here, but online doesn’t feel like real life either. So you end up stuck between two worlds.
That’s where the song came from.
Not heartbreak. Not yearning. Just frustration.
And that same frustration runs through the music world too. Online spaces are gatekept. It’s not that my audience isn’t out there, it’s that modern platforms decide who gets seen. Everything is pay-to-play now. Organic reach is practically dead. If you’re not “viral,” “TikTok safe,” or “Insta-worthy,” you’re invisible.
Meanwhile the human psyche is addicted to outrage, drama, and conflict — the exact opposite of the kind of music or energy I put out. So you either play the game or you accept its limitations. Scrolling was my way of choosing neither, just naming the experience without turning it into a performance.
If anything, the song is about building healthier expectations and boundaries around the online world. Knowing what I’m actually looking for. Knowing what I refuse to chase. And being honest about the fact that both love and music now live inside systems that don’t always reward sincerity.
Scrolling for Love was me channelling all of that, the loneliness, the algorithm, the fake connection, the hope, the irritation, the honesty. It was the moment I stopped blaming myself for something that’s bigger than me.
And that’s the heartbeat of the song.