“Music expresses that which cannot be put into words & that which cannot remain silent.” -Victor Hugo

My Interpretation: I think music is the safest form of confession. Music is confession disguised as melody. It holds truth steady when the voice shakes. Every lyric I love is another way of saying, “same here.” I read between the lines, I look for the metaphors, I pause – stare at a wall & murmur “goddamn”.

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The Walking Oxymoron Era – Part 2

My music taste has always looked like a personality disorder to other people.
To me, it looks like survival.
Every era of my life has had a soundtrack, but none of them match.
Not genre-wise, not vibe-wise, not aesthetically.
But emotionally?
They fit with uncomfortable accuracy.

I listen to music like someone trying to decode their own soul.
Not to escape.
To understand.

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The Country Girl Phase

I started with country –
that was my first language with heartbreak.

Taylor Swift – when she was still country.
Taylor gave me a definition for feelings too big for my body.
She made love sound possible & pain sound poetic.

When she went pop, I was personally offended.
I acted like she betrayed our little secret club.
I was still in my dirt-road emotional era.
I wanted steel guitar & scars you could see.

But here is the thing about real writers:
they do not lose themselves when the production changes.

She kept telling the truth –
she just put sequins on it.

Eventually, I came back.
Not for the hype, but for the honesty.

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The Rage Translator

Then came Eminem.
My introduction to what articulate anger sounds like.
He said the things I never could –
not because I did not feel them,
but because I was taught to swallow instead of speak.

He put teeth on emotions I had only felt quietly.
He made fury sound intelligent, deliberate, precise.
Not childish.
Not chaotic.
Not shameful.

He taught me something no one else did:
anger is not the enemy.
Unexpressed anger is.

His music let me understand that rage can be a language when handled with intention.

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The Punk-Empath Evolution

Enter MGK.
Loud. Messy. Chaotic.
I dismissed him at first.
Too reckless. Too noisy. Too… much.

But then the cracks showed in the music.
The vulnerability that leaks out when bravado gets tired.
The ache behind the riffs.
The desperation masked as edge.

When 27 dropped, I leaned in.
I went back through the lyrics & sat with all of them to
see if he was dropping the mask – or if I was just learning to read him.
Both can be true.

When Don’t Let Me Go dropped, something shifted.
It felt like watching someone hand you, their ribcage.

When Play This When I’m Gone hit my playlist, it was over – I cried like I had known him personally.
That song is not just confession.
It is grief recorded in real time.

His ENTIRE Lost Americana Album – sealed it further.
Raw. Bruised. Honest.

I made a YouTube account for the first time in my life just to comment,
“This is dope. ✌︎”
Because people do not say “thank you” enough when artists bleed for us.

He taught me one of the most important life lessons –
No one is ever “too much” –
You just simply don’t understand to their level of perception.

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NF – The Poet in Panic

NF is a different breed of ache.
He writes the way I think – in spirals.
His songs sound like pacing.
Like therapy sessions he was brave enough to record.

He disappears between albums the same way empaths disappear between emotional storms.
It makes sense.
Honesty drains you.
Vulnerability has a half-life.

He feels like the patron saint of internal monologues.
Every verse is a journal entry dressed as a rhyme.
His lyrics feel like someone finally translated my anxiety into a language that makes sense.

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The Playlist Truth

People assume music taste is a personality test.
It is not.
Music taste is emotional weather.

Country when I need softness.
Rap when I need protection.
Punk when I need to feel unfiltered.
Acoustic covers when my heart needs a place to break quietly.

I do not follow artists.
I follow feelings.
Genres do not make sense to me because my emotions do not stick to one lane long enough to categorize.

People judge playlists like they judge people –
too quickly & with too little understanding.

My playlist is not curated.
It is collected.
It is a museum of every version of me I survived.

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I Listen Differently

I do not care about celebrity gossip.
I do not stalk their lives.
I do not decode clues or Easter eggs or award-show hints.
I barely know their first name.

I listen for the moment the voice cracks.
The breath between lines.
The lyric they almost cut because it was too honest.
The line that was recorded at two in the morning because it hurt too much in daylight.

Music lets me hear what people often hide.
That is why it stays sacred for me.

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The Empath’s Rotation

Empathy jumps genres the way trauma jumps timelines.
One minute you are healing.
The next you are collapsing.
The next you are dancing.
The next you are writing poetry with a shaky hand.

Music moves with me.
It does not ask me to be one thing all the time.
It lets me be chaotic emotionally without apology.

Some songs hold grief.
Some songs hold hope.
Some songs hold anger.
Some songs hold me.

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The Reflection

People look at my playlist & assume I have no identity.
The truth is the opposite.
I refuse to shrink my identity to fit one sound.

I am not a single genre person because I am not a single genre human.
I contain multiple soundtracks at once.
I am every version of myself layered like harmonies.

Music is not background noise for me.
It is biography.
It is how I track my growth.
It is how I remember who I have been & who I am becoming.

I do not choose songs.
Songs choose me.

Xoxo ♡

Note: Do not come at me for mentioning MGK + Eminem in the same post – I am that old, I know there was beef at some point over something, but I do not actually remember for what nor is it my business.