BACK TO THE GRASS

Some places hold you,
even when you leave.

Chin lifted toward the sun. Denim jeans. Bare shoulders catching the light, warm against the breeze that whispers across the hills. The fence still runs behind me, stretching endlessly, a reminder of where I’ve been. The hills still glow gold and green, a patchwork of wild beauty, the way California always does if you slow down long enough to really see it. The air hums with the same electricity, yet everything feels different now. Same ground. Different man.

The album is out now. Ghost in the Machine. This is not just a title—it’s a decade of work, a decade of dreaming, distilled into sound. A joke scrawled on a friend’s hand, a fleeting thought, now etched forever in music. Never did I think those scribbles would hold so much weight.

I think about the nights of doubt and the mornings of hope. I think about the people who stayed, each name etched into my memory like a lyric I’ll never forget—the ones who believed when there was nothing but the promise of a whisper, an echo of what might be.

The sky stretches endlessly, like the future, wide open and full of possibilities. It's overwhelming how much has changed. And yet, with every change, every left turn and sudden climb, there’s so much right here, right now, to hold close. To be grateful for.

For every word, every note, every moment you gave to make this real—thank you. If you’re here, still standing by me, know that I carry you in every step forward.

Captured by Mitchell Royel.
Now playing "Crowd Nine," by me :)

Moorpark did that for me.

I came back this week.
Same field.
Same hills.
The light still falls the way it did in 2015.

That year, my friends and I made a photo.
Nothing planned.
Just us in the grass, hands raised.
Someone wrote a few words in ink, and we laughed about it.
We didn't know it would mean anything.

It meant everything.

The new photo:

Three young women with blonde hair, sitting close in a sunlit field. Golden hour. One hand raised, palm to the camera. Black ink across the skin — MITCHELL ROYEL. GHOST IN THE MACHINE. Behind them, a wooden fence and rolling hills.

Soft.
Warm.
Ours.

I stood there again this week.
Older now.
Quieter, maybe.

The new photo:

Me in the same grass. A Black guy with blonde hair, lying on my stomach, chin lifted toward the sun. Denim jeans. Bare shoulders catching the light. The fence still runs behind me. The hills still glow gold and green, the way California does.

Same ground. Different man.

The album is out now. Ghost In The Machine. Ten years from a joke scrawled on a friend's hand to a title on a record.

I think about the people who stayed. The ones who believed before there was anything to believe in.

So much has changed.

So much to be grateful for.

Thank you for being here.

— Mitchell & friends