“So I learned the words,” Phoebe Bridgers sings in a cascading breathy tone. Her poignancy resonates within me, burning the flame that is my infatuation with her lyrics—and lyricism altogether—brighter.  

It’s in the first verse of that song, “Chinese Satellite,” her voice lays simply above the keys and delicate strums of a guitar. The three-and-a-half-minute commentary on cynicality when it comes to credence in a higher being is so complex, in fact, that it juxtaposes the relatively light instrumentation. Perhaps then, it is the dichotomy of both worlds that captures my attention.

Or so one may assume.

The pattern repeats itself yet again in Taylor Swift’s “Evermore.” I return to this title track from an album that remains forgotten by a large part of the general public (as Swifties like to joke); not because of Swift and Bon Iver’s haunting harmonies, but because of gems like “gray November, I’ve been down since July” or “I replay my footsteps on each stepping stone, trying to find the one where I went wrong.” Her words are raw and granular, for they dissect emotions so specific and peculiar that I as a listener can only wish and pretend not to relate. 

Yes, it sounds bitterly sad that I see myself in such dejected lyrics, but for me it’s therapy. I am thankful for the manner in which words allow me to feel heard. Even in my own writing, there’s a sense of physicality and artistry in the simplicity of touching pen to paper that shoots dopamine up my spine. 

While a lot of you, including myself, must be asking why. Why do I feel so wholly connected to words: their shape, their meaning, their linguistic origins? But in trying to find an answer, I’ve realized that they lose meaning, and that this whole world of meticulously analyzing lyricism in the songs that act as the soundtrack of my life is intimate, is mine. I don’t have to explain why, and for that I’m thankful: thankful that there is no right answer. 

My perspective and interpretation of these words, deliberately placed side to side to construct evocative sentences, is personal, not archetypal nor contrived. When I listen to how artists, such as Lana Del Rey and Lorde, toy with the constructs of grammar and pronunciation (see Del Rey’s “Not All Who Wander Are Lost”), I derive meaning. These unique takes that deviate from the norm offer me space to make sense of words on my own accord and to craft takeaways that only maintain gravity in my mind. 

I am thankful for words because, in this way, inanimate scribbles on a page or tones that leak from the lips of musicians listen to me and make me feel heard more than people ever have. It is not just limited to listening, however.

In the second verse of the very same song by Swift, she sings in a pitch so high I can only dream of replicating it: “writing letters, addressed to the fire.”

As I pace around my room, entrapped by its newly redone calypso green walls, and type into the notes document on my phone, I list the words that scratch an itch so deep in my brain it’s inexplicable.

Ephemeral.

Ease.

Cathedral…

I often go through phases where I implement these words again and again in my writing, which heavily consists of empty thoughts sitting in utter silence on my phone. But this process of writing for no one but myself to read pulls my cheeks wide. Writing words that sound pretty, weaving narratives that are three-dimensional and expressing feelings and thoughts that cloud me in these brief, mindful deposits keeps me grounded.

So while I stare at the sky in search of Bridgers taking a tour of the stars in her Chinese Satellite, I am happy to be on the ground, listening in to the words and lyricism that renders me whole, and writing my own.

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